Predator or Prey
by Riselike-BreakofDawn
Summary: sequel to my AU fic "Fight or Flight," - (read that first.) McGee is back in America with his team, re-adjusting to life as an agent with his newfound powers and recovering from the trauma of the previous year. The MCRT is better than ever, until a case forces them to relive past events and face new dangers in America's flightling world.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello, everyone! Long time, no read! I am pleased to be posting a sequel to my longest (and arguably, personal best) fic, Fight or Flight. This sequel has been a long time in the making, partially because sequels are damn hard to write, and partially because FoF was so bizarre and out of the ordinary for an NCIS fic that I wasn't sure how its sequel would be received. This story is essentially a direct reaction to the first- Tim's life adjusting to the events of FoF. Also, if you haven't read FoF, please read that before even considering reading this story; I don't think much of anything will make sense otherwise. Finally, if you have read Fight or Flight, then you'll know that the same warnings will apply: there are some OCs (though not as many as the first story), there is some violence, the story is AU in the sense that it is supernatural in a way, and that this is a Tim-centric story. If any of this isn't your cup of tea, run far away because this story isn't for you. However, if you'd like to accompany me on this weird journey, I hope you enjoy. 3**

…..

He was having nightmares again.

They'd gone away for the past few weeks, but without warning or any overt reason, they'd returned. Darkness, some screams of a woman muffled through the haze of memory and sleep, the sticky feeling of blood running down his arms….

God, why couldn't he close his eyes with the confidence that he'd enjoy a normal, peaceful night's sleep for a change? He needed to start taking some melatonin. Or perhaps something stronger. Was there a drug that would guarantee he wouldn't have these nightmares?

He knew that something had to change. He was a pretty great actor, pretending most days that he was fine, that the pain he felt at night wasn't there. But recently this nightly ritual was starting to affect his attention, his focus during the day not what it could be, due to exhaustion. Going into work used to be a pleasant affair, but now he could see that his co-workers glanced at him with concern out of the corners of their eyes when he came in, eyes red-rimmed and underlined with the dark circles that were now a mainstay of his appearance.

The past few months had inflicted more bad dreams than he'd experienced in his entire life. It was odd, the fact that he was suffering in this way now, so long after the cause of these dreams had happened. He'd once read somewhere about how the true effects of trauma can lie dormant for ages before rising to the surface and wreaking havoc on a person's life. He didn't really know. He wasn't a psychologist.

A psychologist would probably be a good answer to the problem, he realized. But then again, it would just make matters worse. Telling his story to a medical professional would surely end with him being tossed into the nearest mental institution. Who would believe him? No, he couldn't talk about it with anyone, for fear of sounding crazy. He could just see the pity in their eyes, poorly hid behind masks of sympathy and fake understanding.

All that he'd done since then, he had done to make the nightmares stop. To make the residual guilt go away. It had worked until recently. It never occurred to him, that his actions and his suppression of memories, combined together as they were, might make things so much worse.

No, nothing was working to make the nightmares stop. They'd only gotten worse. He needed to change that if he was ever going to live his life the way he knew he should. The way he'd lived before all of this.

This night in particular, after another round of lurching out of sleep, clutching his chest until his heart rate calmed and his ragged breathing returned to normal…this night he was having more trouble than usual in trying to fall back asleep. So, he stopped trying. He made himself some coffee and sat at his kitchen table, staring at nothing, examining things unseen.

This quiet contemplation did not help matters, and before long, a violent rage filled him, making his hands shake. Little splashes of the hot drink spilled over his hands but he didn't notice.

He couldn't go on like this.

Something needed to change.

He had to do something.

Anything.

In the very furthest and darkest crevices of his tired brain, "anything" formed into a "something." The faintest flicker of an idea came to his mind. Not a plan, not even part of a plan, but something that, if properly explored and developed, could become a plan….

He shook the thought from his head and dumped out the rest of his coffee. He just needed sleep, was all. He wouldn't be feeling this way if he actually got some rest.

But a few hours later, when the sun had risen and he dressed deliberately for work, even worse off than he had been before, the fleeting images of yet another round of nightmares seeping from his mind, that idea was still there. And by the time he'd made it to work, that idea had turned into something absolutely crazy. He could all too easily fail. Die, even. But it gave him a thrill just to turn over the idea in his mind.

At the least, it was better than nightmares.

…

 **A/N: I sort of lied in the above note. I'm not just unsure of how this story would be received, I was originally downright scared of how it would be received. I mean, who wants such an AU story, especially this long after the original was published on this site and since the actual NCIS storyline has become so deviated from how it was just a few years ago? Still, there are quite a few supernatural/sci-fi themed NCIS fics, several of which are absolutely great, and many of which are a series. I hope to add to that weird little niche. Again, thank you if you choose to read further, and I hope you find it worth your while.**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Wow… just, wow. I can't tell you all what your kind words have meant to me this past week. Thank you to all who reviewed, so, so very much. I hope I don't disappoint. Before I begin, I should note/confirm that this chapter picks up shortly after the epilogue of FoF. Happy reading. 3**

…

Washington D.C. is a weird town.

It's a place full of contradictions. The world's most powerful leaders are all crammed into one place, a place carved out of wilderness and wetlands and tamed into a grid. This grid was modeled after a style of city planning conceived by the French in a time when cars didn't exist, and so it is not surprising that D.C. also has some of the most awful traffic on the eastern seaboard. Poor neighborhoods sit just blocks away from the highest officials appointed to lead the country. New condos are shoved between historic structures, all built at weird angles and uncomfortable distances from each other like people waiting in an endless line for absolutely nothing, because of the way the streets rise and dip slightly with the land.

Since he'd returned to America, this oddness was made apparent to NCIS agent Tim McGee more than ever before. It was all due to a shift in perspective- nothing had actually changed since he'd left, of course.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Washington wasn't any different, but McGee was.

In his time spent living in Valero Notte, Italy, McGee had become accustomed to the ancient setting that so neatly matched his new physique. His large wings, his glittering eyes...they spoke of a time centuries before. It was easy to get used to all of this when his adoptive family, and the dark and ancient world that his newfound abilities made him privy to, were a part of this life. But upon returning to the States, his true and native home, where the world was a much more complex mix of old and new, he'd worried about reconciling who he was as a person, and who he was as a flightling. The stereotype his flightling genetics saddled him with was one of a creature of the night, of darkness and of solitude. However, his life in America was one of technology and crime and was far less fantastic- though perhaps not any less unbelievable at times. It was a life of analytics, of hacking, and of those awful orange walls that looked over his work every single day. These two personas hardly seemed to match. However, McGee was, as Ducky had once noted, an old soul with a decidedly modern set of talents, so despite his worry about meshing the two lives into one, he had very little trouble. Because all of the aforementioned traits were a part of him, even before he had become a flightling. Sure, the events of the past few months had changed him in many ways, strengthening some parts of him and, unfortunately, scarring others. But he was still Tim.

So, yes, he had no problem remaining the same sweet, unassuming McGee even after returning to America, and after all he'd been through. Still, sometimes it was to his benefit to tap into that flightling instinct and to let the world see that bit of darkness.….For example, he was using it at that moment, waiting for his prey to round the corner into this alley where he stood, removed as he seemed from the hustle and bustle of Washington D.C.'s nightly activities. In this waiting position, he had been left to his own thoughts and was contemplating the differences between his two homes. Whereas Valero Notte at night possessed a misty atmosphere, while this place had more of a smoky quality. But regardless of the setting, in this moment Tim looked downright terrifying, backlit as he was by the glow from the offices and shops at the end of the alley behind him, most of his lean 6-feet-2-inches cloaked in shadow (save, of course, his enhanced eyes and the massive wings that stretched out around him, taking up the full space of the alley.) Really, in his current position, wings dramatically posed and menacing look on his face, he would have looked frightening to anyone who didn't know him.

The dark setting only added to the fear-factor, and the man he was waiting for rounded the corner to find McGee there. A yelp at the sight in front of him escaped the man's lips, and he attempted to stop short in his path. However, the suspect, who was only a couple inches shorter than Tim, didn't stop running in time, and plowed into the agent full force. The impact should have been enough to send them both to the ground, but with Tim's strength, he was able to stay upright, where he caught the guy by the shoulders. Said man quickly fainted, slipping out of the junior agent's grasp and falling to the ground in a heap.

Well…. damn.

Surprised at this new development, the normal, more awkward McGee rose to the surface and the agent stared down at the suspect, his arms still frozen in place from where he'd attempted to keep the man upright. At this point, Tony DiNozzo rounded the corner, panting from his pursuit of their suspect. There he found the unconscious man, and his very shocked friend staring down at him.

DiNozzo finished catching his breath and reached down to feel the man's pulse. When he found a steady heartbeat, he straightened up and looked at Tim with one eyebrow cocked.

"What happened? Did you hit him or something?"

"No! He sort of ran into me…"

"And that knocked him out?"

"No. He passed out when he saw me."

Tony's smile stretched from ear to ear. "Nice, McGee. I told you that would work." He looked down at their suspect, still grinning. "I didn't think it would make him faint though."

"I hate when you make me do that," Tim muttered, ears tinged pink as he folded his wings away and putting his jacket on to conceal the slits in his shirt where his wings came and went from his back. This was, however, stated with no trace of genuine annoyance, which DiNozzo was quick to point out.

"Please. You love it."

"I actually think he is right, McGee," Ziva said, coming down the alley towards them. "How often do you get to make a grown man pass out at the mere sight of you?"

They were both right, but Tim continued anyway. "You know, it's one thing to use my wings when we're chasing down a suspect who's actually a flightling, but when it's a human, I'm just risking being found out."

"C'mon, you act like it happens all the time. You've only done it once before on a case. Besides," Tony looked down at their still-unconscious suspect again. "I think you're safe from this guy."

And the senior agent was right. When the man was shaken awake by Gibbs, the first sight of McGee made his skin turn a deathly shade of gray. But as Jethro pulled him up by the arm and cuffed him and Tony read him his rights, the man seemed to realize that what he had seen was surely impossible. It seemed to be even more ridiculous when he got a good look at Tim in the slightly more adequate light of the street- he was slightly more intimidating than he had been when he first started at NCIS, but of everyone on the team, McGee was decidedly the least physically threatening to the random stranger. Still, logic and reason aside, the man kept sending wary glances at McGee any time the junior agent came within a yard of him. Tim pretended not to notice but couldn't help the secret pang of satisfaction that he felt when, back at the NCIS interrogation room, he went up to him to undo his handcuffs and the suspect jumped almost a foot out of his seat.

When he left their nervous perp alone in interrogation, McGee went over to observation, where the rest of the Major Case Response Team was gathered. Now that they were truly alone, Gibbs smirked at the suspect's twitchy response to Tim and was tempted to let his junior agent interrogate the man by himself. However, he knew that McGee couldn't flash his wings every time he needed to intimidate someone, and what's more, Jethro could practically feel Ziva's fidgeting. She hadn't interrogated anyone in the past week or so, and while she would never beg for the opportunity, it was clear she was dying to question their suspect.

"Ziva, with me."

"Don't you think we should just let McGee go in there and scare him into talking, Boss?" Tony asked, checking his watch. If their suspect confessed within the next thirty minutes, the team would be able to go home at a reasonable hour- and on a Friday, no less.

The younger man's eye roll did not mask the slight fear that Gibbs would actually make him do such a thing. Jethro followed Ziva out and grabbed their file of crime scene evidence, but did not shut the door to observation behind him until he'd said, "You're on deck, McGee. If it's not done in twenty minutes, you'll get five minutes to get him to talk."

Tim watched the door close, and after a beat of silence, turned to DiNozzo. "Is he kidding?"

"After ten years, you can't tell the difference?"

"Can you?"

"No."

The senior agent grinned when his friend didn't have a retort. "So, assuming we get out of here on time, we still going out?"

"Sure," McGee checked the time on his phone. "Oh, and Victoria's going to meet us."

This time, it was Tony's turn to go quiet for a minute, although Tim couldn't help but notice the older man perk up a bit. He took advantage of this uptick in DiNozzo's mood to ask, "do you mind doing me a favor beforehand? Could you call Sarah and check up on her?"

Tony's smile dimmed and he went serious for a moment, before he nodded. "Of course, McGee."

Of Tim's two "sisters," there was a general, unspoken consensus between the rest of the team that they all favored Victoria far better. Any personal feelings aside, Victoria was far kinder and more supportive of McGee than his biological sister ever was.

Alright… to be fair, other than a brief greeting at Tim's funeral back when he'd been assumed dead, Tony hadn't really seen Sarah in many years. Not since she'd been involved in a case of theirs. While he tried to keep in mind that she'd been a suspect in a murder investigation and had just gotten over a night of being drugged and framed, she hadn't been particularly kind to her brother, who dropped everything to help her. McGee almost lost his job because of that case and this led DiNozzo to hold an admittedly strong bias against Sarah. But Tim of course loved Sarah dearly, and Tony knew his friend still went back and forth over whether he should tell his sister (and his mother, whom Tim really hadn't spoken to in ages) the truth, to come forward and let them know he was alive. And not only that he was alive, but that it turned out the McGee family carried a flightling gene and Tim had been changed into a flightling and had spent a year in Italy going through all sorts of heaven and hell. However, he had a lot of reasons not to, some better than others, and the decision had haunted him since his reinstatement as an agent.

Tim's father, on the other hand, didn't leave much room for doubt. McGee had asked Tony to call the Admiral a handful of times since returning to America, under the guise of checking in on the family of his fallen best friend. But each time Tony mentioned Tim, the Admiral promptly disconnected the call. The first time this happened, Tony could see McGee, who had been listening in, was trying his hardest not to appear hurt. But Tim had never been the best actor and his shrug and watery grin were less than convincing. The lack of surprise on the younger man's face, however, had been genuine. Ziva had theorized that the Admiral hung up because he truly loved his son and had a lot of guilt and regret over the way their relationship had been at the time of Tim's "death." McGee had smiled and thanked her, and stated that while that may very well be the case, he suspected that his father loved him best in memory and that him coming back to life wouldn't change things. Ziva, Tony, and even Gibbs hated to admit it, but based on their brief interactions with the Admiral and seeing how he treated McGee, they were inclined to agree.

The real miracle was that he'd been able to pick up his career in NCIS right where he'd left off, and go undiscovered by his Navy family, especially his father. Where Tony supported Tim's decision to "stay dead" to his family, Ziva did not, and maintained that it would be a disaster if he were to continue this guise and suddenly run into any one of them one day. He knew she was right. Still, since returning to the States, there was always something going on in McGee's life to give him an excuse to put it off.

They'd all had this discussion once again earlier that week, but Tim's excuse this time had been a relatively good one: Victoria was due to come into town that week.

Victoria was in no way related to McGee biologically, but they had more to connect them than some actual blood-relatives do. After Tim had been taken in by Apollo Clark, Victoria's father-figure, she had helped heal McGee of physical wounds, had helped teach him about the world of flightlings, and the two had become very close during the peaceful few months they'd spent living in the Clark house in Valero Notte. But really it was the shared trauma they'd experienced after, not to mention all that Victoria had done for Tim and the rest of the team, that had truly brought them together.

After Apollo was killed, Victoria had undertaken the strenuous affair of seeing to his last wishes, sorting out his personal effects, and taking the reigns on restoring the damaged Clark mansion. She had done all of this while staying in Apollo's second home in New York, which had afforded her several opportunities to visit with McGee over those few months. When they couldn't see each other, the two flightlings had talked on the phone often, and texted back and forth almost every day. Now that she was finished doing all of the work she'd set out to do, Tim had convinced her to come visit him in D.C. for an extended stay while she considered her next step. Consequently, this would be the first time the rest of the team had seen her in the six months since they'd parted after Italy.

The team hadn't been out together in several weeks for anything not related to work, so going for drinks to relax and catch up with Victoria would be a welcome change of pace. But DiNozzo was now pre-occupied with the phone call he would be making to Sarah McGee before they left the office. He was always happy to help Tim, knowing his friend would do the same for him if the roles were reversed, but these short talks were always a bit uncomfortable.

Still, luck was on the team's side this evening, as their suspect confessed not long after Ziva and Gibbs began their interrogation. The evidence they had on him proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he'd killed the petty officer whose body had been found, stabbed multiple times, in Silver Springs, Maryland. It was a crime of passion, the petty officer having carried on an affair with the perp's wife for quite some time. The evidence against him was so much that the suspect barely attempted to deny the murder before breaking down into angry tears, ranting about his cheating spouse and how he didn't really regret his actions. Case closed.

The speedy confession lent itself easily to speedy case reports, which were printed and set on Gibbs' desk not an hour later. When Jethro had compiled the reports and had gone to process and submit them, Tony turned to his two teammates in the bullpen.

"Ready?"

McGee nodded silently. He only went through this every other month or so, but for some reason, listening in while his friends called his relatives always made him nervous.

"Would you like me to make the call this time, Tony?" Ziva offered generously, seeing the hesitation flicker across DiNozzo's face.

"If that's alright with you, it's fine with me," the senior agent said to his friend.

"That's fine," Tim nodded. "Thank you, Ziva."

The former Mossad agent sat at her desk and dialed the number to Sarah McGee's cell. Since there was no one else but the MCRT left in the office, she put the desk phone on speaker so that her friend could listen in.

The phone rang twice before the feminine voice sounded through the bullpen. " **Hello?** "

"Hello Sarah, this is Ziva David…your brother's coworker…and friend, from NCIS."

" **I know who you are, Ziva,** " the younger woman responded kindly, amused at the agent's introduction of herself, despite their having spoken a few times since her brother's "death."

The Israeli woman smiled in spite of herself once she caught the glint of happiness and amusement in McGee's expression as he listened in, leaning against her desk. "Good, I'm glad. I just wanted to check on you and see how you've been?"

" **Well…I've been good, actually,** " Sarah said. " **I think I told you last time that I got a job? Work is going well, I'm really enjoying it.** "

"That's great. And you are still with the same boy, yes?" Ziva asked, smiling again when she saw Tim's eyes snap to the phone, as if it were Sarah herself in the office with them. The last time the team had made such a call with the junior agent listening in, it had been Tony, not Ziva, who made the call. Naturally, Sarah didn't feel quite so comfortable with the standard "girl talk" topics when speaking to DiNozzo, and hadn't mentioned it. But several months before Tim had returned to America, Ziva had called Sarah of her own volition, checking to see how the sister of her fallen teammate was doing. Sarah had mentioned in passing that her boyfriend had been so kind and understanding in helping her grieve her brother's death. So this was the first time her brother was hearing about this serious boyfriend.

" **Oh yes, Noah and I are still together. Things have been great. He just got promoted at his job, too, so we're trying to plan a nice vacation to take this summer.** "

McGee's eyebrows raised. Tony, sitting at his own desk, grinned at this reaction.

"That's fantastic," Ziva said, genuinely happy for the younger woman. "And I take it that, financially, everything is ok?"

" **Oh, yeah, absolutely.** "

Tim had written a will the day after Kate's funeral. He'd known that being a government agent could be dangerous, but before her death, it hadn't occurred to him that getting shot through the forehead by a rogue operative could ever be a possibility. Either way, it reminded him that he was a mortal person in a dangerous job- and one without a will. This had been updated over the years until it finally became the document that was executed after his supposed death. In it were simple instructions- first, Jethro (the dog) would go to Abby. The money made from his novels would go to Tony, Ziva, and Gibbs, which had come as a touching surprise to the agents. His apartment was to be sold and his belongings were to be sorted through by his sister and grandmother to do with as they pleased. Sarah had kept his Porsche, which constantly reminded her of her brother. Despite his careful nature, he'd opted out of receiving a pension, choosing instead to save his money and to invest small amounts of it, the profits of which had gone into a retirement fund. All of his money was to go to his family.

(After returning to the States, his team had insisted on giving him back the rights and royalties to his books. He bought a new car and with the help of Tony and Ziva, he found a new apartment, one much nicer than the little one-bedroom he'd inhabited before. The money Apollo had left him was more than enough to keep him living comfortably for the rest of his life, and the reinstated NCIS salary he received was just extra income to do with as he pleased.)

"I'm glad to hear it, Sarah," Ziva said again.

" **Thanks. How is everyone at NCIS?** "

"Oh, we're doing fine, thank you. We just wrapped up another case this evening."

A pause came over the line, and for a second everyone listening in wondered if the call had accidentally disconnected. But then Sarah quietly asked the question that had been on her mind for weeks.

" **I….I never really asked this….for a while I wasn't ready to hear the answer, but…have you….is there….did another agent get assigned to your team?** "

Ziva paused, unsure of how to respond. Technically, yes, there was another person put on their team since they'd last seen Sarah, at McGee's funeral. But that addition had been Tim regaining his old job, which was, of course, the junior agent's secret to share as he chose.

She looked up at her friend for guidance, silently asking how she should answer the question. After a long moment of deliberation, he nodded, ever so slowly, giving her permission to say what she needed to say.

"Yes…yes, a young man about my age was added to the team."

" **Okay,** " Sarah said carefully, working hard not to betray any emotion. " **I mean, I expected that, I was sure you all couldn't just keep his desk empty forever.** "

"Are you alright, Sarah?"

The young woman cleared her throat. " **Yes, actually, I am. I'm glad that I asked. I'd been afraid to ask for a while, but it was stupid. I knew the answer already, deep down. I needed to hear you say that.** "

"I hope I didn't upset you," Ziva said, unconvinced.

" **Oh no, really. I'm actually very grateful. It's nice to hear from my brother's friends and not be torn apart over it. Tim loved you guys so, so much. I know you all call to check on me, but I like to hear that you all are doing well, too.** "

It was at this moment that Tony felt a little pang of guilt for not wanting to call Sarah in the first place.

"That is very kind of you, Sarah. Please let us know if you ever need anything whatsoever. Or if anyone else in your family needs anything. We're here to help."

" **Thank you. I will.** "

After exchanging a few more parting pleasantries, Ziva said goodbye and hung up. Looking up at McGee, she was worried by the worn out look in his eyes. He was staring at nothing, his mind elsewhere.

"Are you alright, McGee?"

Upon hearing her question, Tim snapped out of his reverie and actually smiled. "I am. Thank you, Ziva, I needed to hear that she was doing well."

"Of course. I am happy to help."

Tony watched the junior agent's expression and it began to dawn on him that McGee had been feeling a bit guilty over being happy to see Victoria that night, when he had gone so long without checking up on his sister. But hearing that Sarah was doing very well had lifted his spirits, and DiNozzo could sense that Tim was ready to enjoy himself, guilt-free.

Gibbs re-entered the bullpen at this point, always the master of tactical timing, and this was Tony's cue to gather his belongings and announce the words he'd been waiting to say all day.

"Let's get out of here. First round's on me."


	3. Chapter 2

It was such a lovely night that as Tim stepped out of his car, he was so tempted to just take off his jacket, spread his wings and jump into the night. It had drizzled on and off all day and it smelled like heavier rain would be following within the next few hours. As summer was just about to begin, the air was warm but a strong breeze kept everything comfortable and cool. This was McGee's favorite flying weather- flying in the rain itself was dangerous and just plain stupid, but there was a sweet spot in the margin of time before a storm that made for wonderful conditions. This helped to further lift the junior agent's spirits as he locked his car and stepped onto the curb. Ziva, Tony, and Gibbs had all parked at various open spots down the street (a lucky break for a Friday evening), and were all strolling towards him where he stood in front of their intended meeting spot.

It was a dim and slightly upscale lounge of a bar, the kind where slinky mood music played in the background and cocktails were priced just high enough to keep out a younger, more rowdy crowd. It wasn't remotely the fanciest bar in the area, but it was still a far cry from the dive near the Navy Yard that catered almost exclusively to agents and sailors. Said dive was the usual place for the team when it came to getting drinks after a successful case, but when Tim had suggested they go there to meet Victoria, his intention to pick a comfortable place where everyone could just sit around or shoot pool, there was an awkward pause before Tony and Ziva gently informed him that their normal bar was a hangout for employees from various agencies, yes, but flightling hunters tended to swing by the place to pick up information on potential targets from the individuals familiar with the area's most recent criminal (or suspicious) activity. McGee hadn't noticed this in the past year, and was reminded that while most people didn't know about flightlings, the ones who did often chose to see them as dangerous monsters…and admittedly, while they very much could be, most hunters did not make the distinction between "good" and "bad" when going after targets. Tim and Victoria weren't overtly "non-human" in appearance whatsoever, but those who cared knew what to look for and would certainly notice them. No, better safe than sorry. So McGee went with a bar DiNozzo recommended and had texted his friend the address.

The rest of his team had reached him and moved to enter the bar. Tim was about to pull out his phone and text "we're here," before a familiar, gentle voice sounded from behind him.

"Hey there, handsome."

McGee turned, already grinning before he saw Victoria. She was walking towards him, her hair beginning to frizz just a bit from the weather, a smile on her face and the light reflecting in her brilliant blue eyes.

He reached out and pulled her into a hug so tight that her laughs came out breathless and her feet left the ground.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too," she replied, hugging him back. Tim put his friend down and she turned to the rest of the team, standing just behind McGee, ready to greet her.

"It's good to see you again," Ziva said warmly, embracing Victoria.

"It's so great to see all of you too," she said. Tony flashed her his signature smile as she hugged him next. Finally, turning to Gibbs, she paused, and stuck out her hand, her expression soft and a bit cautious. By no means was she afraid of Jethro- she trusted him, how could she not after everything they'd all been through? But Gibbs had been a hunter once upon a time, and a successful one at that; she knew that he trusted her, but wasn't quite sure of anything else about his opinion of her. She was also certain that Gibbs wasn't the hugging type.

Or even if he was- they weren't "there" yet.

"Agent Gibbs," she offered.

"Victoria," he replied, his eyes bright and the edges of his mouth quirked up.

The little party entered the bar and sat at a high round table. When their drinks were ordered, the catching up began.

"So, how is everyone? What's been going on since you got back to America?"

"Work," Tim snorted. "Not much else. You?"

"The same, though not the same kind of work of course," she said. "I finished sorting through all of Apollo's legal papers and various documents. He had decades' worth of tax info from both the US and Italy, his will, letters to deliver, last wishes to fulfill…it was a lot."

"I wish you'd let me help."

"That's alright, I was glad to do it."

"So what are you going to do now?" Ziva asked.

"Well after you're sick of me-" McGee and Tony both rolled their eyes and looked like they each had something to say, so she smiled and corrected herself. "Once I'm done visiting, I guess I'll decide whether to go back to New York, or to Valero Notte. I'll find some type of work and go from there."

"By yourself?" DiNozzo frowned.

"I have friends in both cities."

"You should just stay here," Tim asserted after a pause.

"...In D.C.?"

"Why not? We're here, and it would be good to have you around."

"I don't know…I don't know the area very well. What would I do with myself?"

"You wanted to get a job. You can get one here," Gibbs said.

"They are right. It would be nice to have you around," Ziva added.

"Well…I'll think about it," Victoria said, eyes flashing with interest at this new suggestion. "For now I'm happy to just catch up."

Their waitress came and put everyone's drinks down in front of them before they were left alone. At this point Ziva asked, "how are you recovering after Italy?"

This question seemed to startle her at first and she stopped in the middle of taking a sip of her wine. But after a moment she recovered. "Oh, I'm alright. My wings are all healed up, I can fly no problem. I mean, I've still got a few scars here and there but that's to be expected. What about you all?"

"All mended," the former Mossad agent replied. "Though we will each undoubtedly have some scars as well."

The little group kept talking and discussing the events of the past few months. Ziva and Victoria, once they'd finally gotten over the discomfort and began to talk to each other in Italy, had clicked surprisingly well and now in this more relaxed, low-pressure situation, their conversations were even more engaging and amiable. Ziva was grateful to have a female friend around, something that she didn't have many of in her male-dominated line of work. Victoria was happy to have someone who understood so much of her experiences. What's more, both women were often grossly underestimated by those who did not know them well. The two women were immensely kind individuals, but each could also be a lethal killing machine in her own right. This was a rare breed. Meeting one of their kind was always a treat.

This chatting turned into story telling and soon they were all laughing about past cases the team had solved over the years. Victoria laughed as Ziva showed her Tim and Tony's mugshots from a case from 2009, during which they were arrested. One hour turned to two and suddenly it was late and everyone was standing and putting on their jackets. When the waitress came to deliver their bill, Victoria took it and paid before any of the agents could reach for their wallets.

"You don't have to do that," Tony said as he put his credit card away.

"It's my pleasure. Besides, I'm sure we'll all be doing something like this again soon. At least, I hope so."

The two shared a small smile before Victoria looked down to tie the belt on her trench coat. McGee and Ziva glanced at each other.

They left the bar and the rest of the team said goodbye and headed to their cars, leaving Tim and Victoria alone.

"I'm glad I got to see your team again. Thank you for inviting me out."

"Of course," McGee replied. "They were glad to see you too."

"So how have you been, really?" she asked suddenly. "Really."

"I've been fine, why?"

"You seem tired. And a little off."

"I'm just behind on sleep," he said. "We've got the weekend off though, so I'll catch up."

Victoria looked up at him without speaking and examined his face for any indication of the truth. "Ok," she said, unconvinced. "If you say so."

"How about we get dinner on Monday so you can see for yourself?" McGee offered, his tone light. Victoria's perpetual state of concern for him was touching but also a bit amusing to him, as she was almost a foot shorter and several years younger than he was.

"Deal. I wanna hear more about the blood analysis you've been doing then, too."

Tim had been borrowing Abby's lab equipment in his free time to try and discern more about his own genes and through their texts and visits, he'd kept his friend abreast of his results. For her part, Victoria had been speaking with her flightling acquaintances and friends to try and find someone who was a flightling, but also a doctor or geneticist- or any kind of scientist, really. Anyone who might know more about the science of flightling genes, instinct, abilities…someone who could give McGee the answers he'd been looking for. His Darwin book of flightling evolution and anatomy had been a good start, but understanding of human medicine and evolution had both advanced since Darwin's time, so surely an understanding of flightlings had advanced as well?

"You got it. So where are you staying while you visit?" he asked.

"I'm in a hotel right now."

"You should stay at my place. I have a spare room."

"That's alright…"

"Victoria, we lived in the same house for months. You're basically my sister. Why wouldn't you just stay at my apartment?"

"Well actually, I think I'll end up being here for a few weeks, so I was thinking about maybe renting or subletting a place. Like I said, I have to decide on my next step, which means I'll probably be around for a while."

"You really should move here. But this is a good start. Let me know if you want help finding a place."

"I will, thanks. We can talk about that at dinner too," she checked her watch and sighed. "It's late, and it looks like it's about to rain. We should go before it starts storming."

Victoria gave McGee another hug, and as she pulled away, she put one hand on the side of his face.

"Rest," she said, tone soft but expression commanding.

"Yes ma'am," he promised with a smile.

She turned and walked to her car at the end of the street. Tim watched her go, and once she had safely pulled away, he turned to his own car.

The drive home was shorter than usual, as rush hour had already come and gone, and McGee made it to his apartment just as the first drops of rain started to fall.

Tony, Ziva, and Gibbs had helped him find this apartment upon their return to the States; the junior agent had stayed in his boss's spare room for a couple weeks until he could move in. They'd found a lovely place in Bethesda, Maryland in record time. The moving in part had been very easy- all of Tim's belongings had been removed from his old apartment when he was declared dead, and were separated amongst his relatives. His books, his clothes, and his furniture were all replaceable, and as he'd lived without all of them while his memory was gone in Italy, it didn't take long to get over them; the only things that really hurt for him to lose were his typewriter and his computers. His grandmother, Penny, had gotten those items and while he was still on the fence about whether or not to reach out to his family, he wasn't going to do it just to get back some personal belongings.

While he'd rather Apollo be alive and well, it was lucky, given the circumstances, that Apollo had left McGee a good bit of money. Not only did he have to get a new car and apartment, but a new wardrobe, new personal effects, and new furniture. Again, his team helped him pick out these things; Tim had to admit, DiNozzo was quite a tasteful individual and it showed in this new apartment. It was spacious and well-lit, with granite countertops and crown molding and dozens of other little details that his previous apartment was notably lacking. McGee truly didn't care about all of that, but even he had to admit that this was a big step up from his old digs.

Tim took off his firearm and placed it in his safe before disrobing and jumping in the shower. He emerged and put on pajama pants but forewent a shirt. With a sigh, the agent rolled his shoulders and let his wings spring forth. Despite going his whole life without his wings, the moment he'd changed into a flightling, walking around with his wings put away felt unnatural. He'd since gotten the hang of walking around his home, wings out, without knocking anything over or making a mess.

The rain outside began to come down harder and the frames of the building rattled with nearby thunder. McGee stretched and yawned, and went to make himself a cup of tea.

He'd lied to Victoria. He wasn't just behind on sleep. Well, he was, but that wasn't all of it. Tim had been having nightmares for a few weeks now- some nights were better than others, but even he had to admit to himself that they were getting worse. This cost him a lot of much-needed rest, and flightlings were powerful, but still partly human. And their human bodies required a lot of recovery from the taxation of their flightling activities. He wasn't getting that.

Most of the time when he awoke he couldn't quite remember what had happened in his dreams. But sometimes they were bad enough to wake him in the middle of the night. Visions of Italy, of torture, of blood and of fighting all came to his mind while he slept. They were so vivid. So real. He didn't want to relive those experiences but he was forced to several nights out of the week. He hadn't mentioned this to anyone, although sometimes after a few bad days in a row it put him on edge and made him jumpy. If his coworkers noticed it, they didn't let on. Tim was getting good at hiding it, though.

McGee was determined to make the most of this weekend and catch up on the rest he so badly needed. Besides, he'd promised Victoria, hadn't he? After finishing the tea, he went to his medicine cabinet and shook a couple of melatonin tablets into his hand. Hopefully they would prevent a restless night.

Tim laid on his side, wings stretched out over his bed behind him, and let the tea, meds, and exhaustion do their work. The sounds of the storm outside finished the job, and helped lull him to sleep.


	4. Chapter 3

The end of the weekend found everyone in the bullpen much more bright-eyed and alert than usual- especially for a Monday morning. Ziva came in bearing coffee for her teammates, handing Tim his cup with a happy "good morning, McGee," and placing Tony's on his still-unoccupied desk.

"Thank you, Z."

"Of course. And how was your weekend?" she asked.

"Much needed," the junior agent admitted, taking a sip of his drink and feeling the caffeine get to work. He'd slept hard for pretty much the majority of the time they'd had off, and because of this he felt better than he had in a while.

"You do look better rested than usual," Ziva noted. "You have been looking tired recently."

McGee decided to politely ignore the digging that he knew she was trying to do, instead responding by holding up the coffee she'd just given him and saying, "this is definitely helping."

He appreciated her subtle concern, but even more than that, he appreciated the way she chose to investigate when she did feel some sort of concern for him. The former Mossad agent tailored her interrogation tactics to her friends just as well as she did for suspects; where she outright threatened Tony and followed him into the men's bathroom to get him to talk about his problems, she employed extra doses of kindness and subtlety to essentially trick Tim into such a confession. In all the time they'd known each other, McGee had gotten better at detecting these efforts, though he knew if she decided to _make_ him talk, she could. And _would_.

Before Ziva could continue her line of questioning, DiNozzo stepped off the elevator, humming to himself as he did, bringing a wave of energy to the bullpen. He put down his bag behind his desk and picked up his coffee, turning to Tim with raised eyebrows, still humming. McGee answered by pointing to Ziva, and the senior agent finally stopped, and turned to his benefactor.

"Thank you very much," he smiled. "My turn tomorrow."

"You seem to be in a very good mood for a Monday, Tony," she responded. Tim, grateful that her interest had been taken off of him, rolled his desk chair away from his computer and faced DiNozzo.

"Well, I had a very good weekend," Tony said, tone still light.

"Better than Friday night?" Ziva asked. One corner of McGee's lips involuntarily quirked up and the junior agent turned back to his computer to hide it.

This remark finally caused the older man to stop and look back and forth between his friends. "Well I don't know about you, Zee-va," he began, drawing out her name to maintain his playful tone. "But I consider it the weekend the moment I get off work on Friday."

"Well it's Monday now," Gibbs interjected, walking through the bullpen, holding a new case file up for his agents to see.

"We got a case, Boss?" Tim asked, standing and grabbing his badge and gun.

"Dead CPO found in a park in Fairfax," Gibbs replied, grabbing his own things.

McGee sighed. A murder was usually the roughest type of case they dealt with, and it was never fun to have to investigate a death first thing Monday morning.

Tony looked out the windows at the still-cloudy sky as they walked to the elevators.

"At least it's not still raining."

…..

Thankfully, though the radar indicated that it was going to pour on and off for the entirety of the week, the weather held while the MCRT processed their crime scene.

Unfortunately, it wasn't much of a scene at all. There was only one individual to question, and that was the park ranger who had found the body. DiNozzo pulled out a notebook from the back of the crime van as Ziva, McGee, and Gibbs began sorting number cards and preparing to take photos.

The park ranger in question was a rather portly and genial older man who liked to talk. While talking to witnesses could sometimes be tiring, Tony liked questioning this particular type of individual; they gave information freely, didn't act suspicious, and tended to share lots of details.

"I saw the blood and the gunshot to his forehead and immediately called 911. I didn't touch anything except his shoe," the ranger added quickly. "His foot was in the creek and his shoe looked like it was about to come off and float away, so I moved it out of the water just a bit to save it."

"Great, thanks for that. So he was laying exactly like that, but with the other shoe on?" DiNozzo gestured to the body.

"Yeah. I've never seen a dead body before outside a funeral. I bet you get used to it in your line of work."

"Unfortunately, yeah."

"I just took this job a few years back to do something with myself after I retired. I didn't think I'd be finding someone shot. This is a nice park."

"How big is the park, exactly?" Tony asked.

"It's the biggest in Fairfax. 220 acres of land, and five different hiking trails. Lots of creeks, too."

"How many entrances are there to the park?"

"Just two. The road you came in by, past the first entrance? It's the main road, and if you keep following it you'll eventually get out through the park and leave from the other side."

"Ok. And remind me what time you found him?" DiNozzo inquired, still scribbling notes.

"The park opens at 7:30 AM every morning. Rangers get here at 6:30 and do rounds on the trails to make sure everything is good for hiking before folks get here. I was just starting my rounds, so…about 6:45?"

"What time does the park close?"

"At dusk almost every day, whenever that is. Hours are longer during this time of year, so usually we close around eight, but we close a couple hours early on Sundays, so we were closed by 6 yesterday evening."

The senior agent glanced through his notes and, satisfied, thanked the man.

"Honestly, I'm just glad I'm the one who found him. We get school groups here for field trips, you know?"

Tony nodded and handed him his business card. "Call us if you find anything else. We'll fax you for a signature on your witness statement in the next couple days."

The park ranger thanked him and headed off to see to the rest of his duties.

DiNozzo walked over to where his coworkers were combing the scene for any evidence.

"Park ranger found him around 6:45 and called the cops, who found his wallet and his military ID and called us," putting his notebook in his back pocket, Tony looked down at the body before asking. "We have a name for this guy?"

Ziva was holding the victim's wallet in her gloved hand and opened it to show the driver's license inside. "Chief Petty Officer Seamus Moore."

McGee snapped a picture of the body, which was lying at the edge of a small creek a few yards off of one of the park's longer, more remote hiking trails. The man's feet had been in the water, and because of it, the bottom of his pants and his shoes were completely soaked. Tim got another picture, this time of the lone shoe placed next to CPO Moore.

"Our witness moved that shoe because it was about to fall off and float away," Tony said.

"The water's higher because of the rain from the weekend," Gibbs added, staring out at the rocks in the creek and taking note of the moss lines on the rocks compared to where the water level was now.

Ziva looked at the victim's clothing. "His shirt is damp, but I think that is from the rain overnight, not water levels from the creek. The blood that is on his head is hardly washed away."

"No blood anywhere else nearby," McGee agreed, nodding. "If he died here within the past twenty four hours, it wouldn't have rained enough to wash away all the blood that comes from a head wound."

"We need Ducky to tell us when he died to be sure, but it would make sense then that he was dumped here after being killed somewhere else," Ziva concluded.

"Honestly, it would make even more sense if someone killed him and dumped him in the creek itself, to wash away any extra evidence," DiNozzo said.

"Luckily for us, it appears that isn't the case," Ducky called, carefully making his way off the path and over to the crime scene.

"I'm sorry we're late," Palmer added, carrying all of the M.E. supplies. "It was hard to get the van close enough."

"That's the other thing," Ziva began, examining the body's placement. "You cannot drive a car on this hiking path, and we are a ways away from the beginning of the trail. If someone killed Moore elsewhere, they would have had to drag or carry him over the trail. It seems like a lot of work."

McGee, having finished taking photos of the surrounding area, returned to watch Ducky and Palmer work. "Well there isn't much of anything around here to go from."

"Which is why Officer…"

"Moore."

"Moore, is going to have to tell us what happened himself," Doctor Mallard responded as Palmer took a liver probe.

"Time of death would be about…eighteen hours ago," the assistant M.E. concluded.

"I quite agree. Rigor mortis has not yet began to recede from this gentleman's muscles. Which means we will have to work together to turn him over, Mr. Palmer."

Jimmy spread a tarp out next to the victim so that they could turn him over without contaminating any possible evidence on the front of Moore's street clothes, which consisted of a simple dark t-shirt and a pair of light wash jeans.

"Oh my," the elderly M.E. said as he further examined their victim's head wound. Gibbs leaned over to see what evoked this remark.

"Close range shot," he concluded, to which Ducky nodded.

"The powder tattooing on his face indicated that much, but this exit wound confirms it."

"That's more evidence that he was dumped here," Tony suggested. "He's facing the creek. So unless someone was standing in the creek when they shot him, he wasn't facing the creek when he was shot. And we know that they couldn't have been in the creek-"

"Besides the obvious that no one murders someone while standing in water up to their ankles if they can't help it?" Tim quipped.

"Well yeah," DiNozzo rolled his eyes. "But the water is higher this weekend. If Moore were standing at the edge of the water when he was shot, then someone either had to come up behind and around him to shoot him, or walk across the creek and shoot him face to face. He would have seen someone come up around him from the side, and if the water was higher and rushing this weekend from the rain, no one would have been able to run across and take him by surprise from the front."

"All this means is that he was killed elsewhere and dumped here, which is what I said five minutes ago," Ziva reminded him.

The senior agent held up his hands. "Just ruling everything out."

"We still don't know why someone would carry him all this way up a trail just to dump him a few yards away where any hiker could see him," McGee pointed out. "Also, whoever it was left Moore's wallet, which means they wanted him to be identified."

"Or they're not an experienced killer and just didn't think to remove all possible evidence."

Gibbs turned to Tony. "Did the ranger say anything about cameras by the entrances?"

"There are only cameras outside the ranger station by the entrance."

"If someone drove through after the park was closed, they would have had to go past those cameras. DiNozzo, with me," the team leader said. "McGee and Ziva, help Ducky and Palmer load up and put the evidence in the van."

"We'll meet you back at the Navy Yard," Ziva nodded. Tim handed her the camera and the meager two evidence bags they'd acquired: one containing the victim's wallet, and one containing his single removed shoe. McGee then helped Palmer gently lift the body onto a stretcher and the two men carried CPO Moore towards the M.E. van.

…..

About an hour later, Tony and Gibbs reentered the bullpen, where the other two agents were hard at work. McGee was typing away on his computer and Ziva stood close by, examining the information that he was projecting onto the flatscreen.

"What've we got?"

"Ducky is working on the autopsy now. He said he'd call if he found anything. McGee was able to get more information on Moore," Ziva said.

"Moore worked on the USS _Normandy_ ," Tim informed his boss, pulling up records to display on the TV. "He'd been transferred there just a couple months ago after spending a while on the USS _Reagan_ , an aircraft carrier in the Pacific."

"Why'd he transfer?" Tony asked.

"I spoke with his MCPO, and she said that Moore wanted to be closer to home full time. He called in some favors to be moved."

"Family?" Gibbs asked.

"Just one long-term girlfriend. The woman I spoke with didn't know her last name, but said that Moore had been living with her for the past few weeks until he could get a home on-base."

"Do we know the address or have any contact information for the girlfriend?"

"The Master Chief Petty Officer is getting the address for us."

After a pause, Tony asked. "Did we find a phone at the scene?"

"No phone and no keys," McGee said. "Did the ranger camera's tell us anything?"

"Someone must have interfered with the cameras last night, because they were out when we got to the station. The rangers were trying to get them back on."

"What time did the cameras go out?"

"They said their recording stopped around 6:30 yesterday."

"That's consistent. Moore was killed yesterday afternoon. The killer drives around, trying to figure out what to do with him, and goes to the park," Gibbs said.

"The main gates are closed at night and locked. But if you know how to pick a padlock you could probably get through. And the ranger station has a toll bar, but those are pretty easy to lift by hand if you really want to. The killer cuts some wires to make sure the camera doesn't nail them, and then they go to the trail furthest from the entrance and dump the body and run," Ziva finishes.

Tony opened his mouth to add more to this theory, when the agents were interrupted by McGee's phone ringing. He answered on the first ring and after a small amount of words were exchanged, he turned to his teammates. "Ducky wants to see us in autopsy."

"All of us?" DiNozzo asked, surprised. "He must have found something big."

This was further suggested by the fact that Palmer was not in the autopsy lab when the agents arrived; instead, Ducky was by himself, his expression inscrutable, which was in and of itself concerning and out of character for the usually cheery doctor.

"Something wrong, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know about wrong or right, but to be quite honest, I'm not sure how to describe the situation," came the vague reply. Ducky turned to the body of CPO Moore, who was placed on his stomach with a sheet covering his back. The agents expected him to point out something around the grisly head wound, but instead, the sheet was pulled down to reveal two thin, identical scars resting on either side of the man's spine.

Chills went down McGee's neck, and he couldn't help but be acutely aware of the two scars on his own back.

Gibbs looked up at Ducky. "What did you tell Palmer?"

"I suggested they were from an old injury or surgery, perhaps on the lungs, although I had to pretend not to be sure. I'm not going to be the one to introduce him to that part of the world if I can help it."

Tim nodded absently, still silent, still staring at the body in front of him. It took him a few moments to become aware that everyone else was staring at _him_ , at which point he cleared his throat.

"Well, I guess this opens up a lot of new questions," Tony supplied in an effort to take the attention off of his friend.

"Do we know of any hunters currently moving through the area?" Ziva asked.

"I don't deal with hunters anymore," Gibbs said. "I'll ask Fornell if he knows anyone who took credit for any recent killings."

"The director might know," Tony said, only half-joking, not hearing the doors to autopsy swoosh as they opened behind him. "I wouldn't put it past him to keep hunting even after everything that happened in the past year."

"Is that right, DiNozzo?"

"No sir it is not," the senior agent replied before awkwardly turning around to face Vance and greet him properly. "Director."

"For the record, I informally stopped hunting when I got married. And I officially stopped hunting when McGee was discovered to be alive," Vance said without prompting, nodding to Tim respectfully. The junior agent and Ducky, were the only two in the room who'd never hunted flightlings themselves, and even Ducky knew quite a bit about hunting, from assisting Gibbs in patching up many flightling-related wounds over the course of their friendship. Feeling everyone's discomfort, McGee decided to speak up.

"Listen, I know you guys just started hunting because you wanted to avenge me. Which I'll always be super grateful for in a weird way. And Boss….and Director….you've told me before that you only ever killed flightlings who were actively killing people. Those flightlings needed to be stopped. I'm okay with it. And I appreciate the fact that you all retired from hunting last year. But you don't have to be uncomfortable. I'm really not bothered by it. We need to talk about it if we're going to investigate this guy's death."

"You are a noble individual, Timothy," Ducky complimented as everyone's mood eased up. "Thank you. And thank you for coming down here, Director. I thought you might be interested to know about this."

"I am," Vance agreed. "So the question is, was Moore killed by a hunter? Or did the person who killed him even know he was a flightling? This might be a normal case where the victim just happens to be a flightling."

"Since his wings weren't out when he died, it is safer to say that he was not caught in the act of attacking humans at his time of death. Although unfortunately, because we can't see the color of his wings, I have no way of determining what kind of flightling Petty Officer Moore was."

McGee walked over to the table that held all of Moore's clothing. "This shirt doesn't have any cuts in the back, and he wasn't wearing a jacket. He probably wasn't intending on flying when he died."

Ducky turned to Jethro. "You are most likely going to have two lines of inquiry for this case: one in which this man was killed for being a flightling, and one in which he was killed for any other reason."

"The first motive has to stay secret, of course," Vance said. "Leave any flightling-related evidence off the autopsy report and your case reports. If you run into any walls because of it, I'll help cover you," he looked down at the body once more. "'Makes me wonder how many flightlings are a part of the military. It seems like a difficult thing to hide when you're living in close quarters and have to get physical exams on the regular."

When he was finished, Vance looked up at the agents and medical examiner. "I'll ask around with some old contacts as well. Let me know if you need help with anything."

Gibbs nodded. "Thanks, Leon."

After Vance left, Ducky turned back to the agents. "I've never done an autopsy on a flightling in my life. Luckily, Timothy has taught me quite a bit about flightling anatomy and medicine during the past year."

"I just appreciate you wanting to learn," McGee replied.

"I am listed as your proxy physician," Ducky said with a warm smile. "If I don't know all that I need to know to properly treat you in an emergency, what kind of a physician would I be? Although I admit I could always learn more."

"I don't know much outside of the Darwin book I gave you and my own experience," Tim said. "Victoria could tell you a little more, but she's not a doctor either."

"Ah yes," the good doctor nodded. "It is my understanding that she is in town now? I would love to meet her in person."

"I'll talk to her tonight and she if she can't help, or maybe find a flightling who is also a doctor to put you in touch with."

Gibbs checked his watch. "Alright. Ziva, see if you can't get someone from the _Reagan_ who knew Moore on MTAC, and try and talk more to sailors from the Normandy. See if anyone would have a reason to kill him. DiNozzo and McGee, get the address to Moore's girlfriend and talk to her."

Tim followed Tony to the elevators, his mind buzzing with questions. As unfortunate as it was, part of him hoped that Moore was killed because of some personal conflict, and not because he was a flightling.

McGee had encountered many flightlings who had deserved to be stopped by hunters, just over a year before. But the fact that he wasn't sure whether Moore "deserved" to be hunted, or if he even _was_ hunted, weighed heavy on his mind.

He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much this time.

…..

 **A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone for their lovely reviews thus far! You all have been very generous with your kindness and support. I love y'all. 3**


	5. Chapter 4

This Monday seemed endless. Tony felt like he'd been up for ages, when it was just now lunch time. Unfortunately for him, and for McGee, the two men were headed not towards food, but to the shared home of the slain CPO Moore and his girlfriend, Natalie. DiNozzo was glad that his stomach was empty at the moment, because Natalie had been told just this morning, over the phone, that Moore's body had been found and that he'd been killed. Speaking with the grieving loved ones of victims was a particularly difficult part of their job.

For his part, Tim had been extremely distracted on their drive, staring out the window without a word unless the older man specifically called him to attention. It was obvious that it wasn't because of the interview they were about to conduct.

"Am I taking this exit or the next one?"

No answer.

"…Probie."

"What? Oh, sorry, it's the next one," the junior agent answered with a glance at his phone for confirmation. "Yeah. The next exit you're gonna get off and then stay on the right."

DiNozzo did as instructed before trying again. "Something bothering you? You haven't really talked since we saw Moore's body."

"I…I'm just not used to having victims be flightlings," Tim admitted.

Tony wasn't entirely convinced that this was the full extent of the issue. "Does that bother you?"

"No more than a human victim does," McGee finally glanced over at him and the senior agent heard the slight curiosity in his voice at what exactly Tony was implying.

"That's not what I mean."

Tim didn't answer right away, so DiNozzo kept pushing.

"If you don't tell me what's wrong I'll just keep asking you all day."

McGee sighed. "I'll feel better if I know that he was just murdered for some normal reason…" he grimaced at his own wording. "That didn't sound the way I meant it to."

"You'll feel better if he wasn't hunted," Tony suggested, though it wasn't posed as a question. He knew the answer.

"If he was, I wouldn't care as much if…" the junior agent trailed off again. He was going to say _"if he deserved it,_ " but that filled him with disgust as well. While he didn't like human hunters going after flightlings, he'd also had a hand in putting an end to rather evil flightlings in the past and in some ways he could hardly see the difference. That's not to say that he thought that strictly "human-on-human" crime was preferable, he just hated the idea of Moore being killed because someone simply _assumed_ him to be a threat.

To his credit DiNozzo picked up on what his friend was trying to say. "Listen McGee, no matter how or why he died, he's a sailor so it's our job to get whoever killed him. We don't have any reason to think he wasn't murdered for any other reason besides being hunted. We'll worry about that first."

The junior agent nodded and did not speak at first, although he had to admit, even those the older man's words didn't contain any answers to his questions regarding Moore's death, it did comfort him to know that his concerns were understood and not disregarded.

"Thanks, Tony."

"Anytime, McGoo. Just don't go falling apart on me."

"Deal."

Both men's moods were slightly improved by this exchange, and DiNozzo pulled into the parking lot of their destination: Moore's former apartment complex.

The woman waiting for them still a tear-streaks going down her face from her most recent bout of crying. She opened the door for the agents and offered them coffee but this politeness did not mask her exhaustion and her grief. Her hair was unbrushed, and she still had on pajamas. This didn't bother the two men now sitting at her kitchen table. They knew what grief felt like.

"Natalie, we're very sorry for your loss," McGee said.

"Thank you. I just…." she had to take a minute to regain her composure. "I just can't believe anyone would do this. Seamus is…was…" another pause, "such a good man."

"So you have no idea why this would have happened?" Tony asked.

"No! He'd told me he was loving his new post in Norfolk while the _Normandy_ was stationed there for some updating. Everyone couldn't help but like him. He's so charismatic and…. _was_ ," she corrected herself again, her voice going flat.

"Ok," DiNozzo said gently. "Can you tell us about how he went missing?"

"Well he and I both had the day off since it was Sunday. I slept in and he went to the gym, and then we were just hanging out here for the rest of the day. I'm a teacher and I'm about to get out of school for the summer so we were planning a vacation. Around…six? I started to make dinner and I noticed we were out of a couple things, and he offered to go get them. When he wasn't back in by seven thirty, I wondered what was taking so long so I called him just to check on him and he didn't answer."

"What did you do then?"

"Well…we both have smartphones so we have that app that let's you see where all of your devices are, you know? We have our laptops and our phones hooked up to it in case they get lost or stolen. So I just checked whether he was still at the store but it showed that he was here in the parking lot. So I went down to see if he needed help with the groceries…and his car was there, his phone was in the center console where he always puts it, but the driver side door was left open and the groceries were still in the passenger side."

"But he was gone?" Tim clarified.

"Yeah, and we never did find his keys, either. I looked around the lot, I even went out off the lot and looked for him. But there's no way he'd just leave his door open with his phone out and the groceries sitting like that, so I got freaked out and called the cops."

"What time was this?"

"Around….eight? Eight thirty? They came over and searched everything and told me they'd keep searching the area. There aren't any cameras pointing towards our parking spots and nobody heard anything, so they didn't have a lot to go on. I stayed up all night hoping he'd come home, but…this morning I got the call from your people saying they'd…found him…that he'd been shot..." Natalie closed her eyes but a few spare tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess."

"Don't apologize," McGee said. "Did the police happen to take his phone?"

"No, they said I should hold on to it for now and that they'd come get it if they didn't find him in the next day or so."

"Typical," Tony muttered.

"Then would it be okay with you if we took it and processed it?" Tim asked. "And you said he had a laptop, too?"

"Oh, of course. Here…" she got up and went into the bedroom and came back with the computer. Grabbing a sticky note, Natalie wrote down the passwords to CPO Moore's laptop and phone.

"Thank you."

"Anything I can do to help. Also I took the groceries inside once I called the police yesterday, but they took a picture of the receipt. I have it if you need it." She went to the fridge and took a piece of paper from behind one of the magnets on the side. "Here it is."

Tony looked at the receipt and saw that Moore had checked out at 6:50 PM the evening before. "Did Seamus have any other family?"

"No, not really…he was adopted, and his adoptive parents died before I met him. They didn't have any other kids. He has some cousins, but he only saw them around holidays."

"And you said you have no idea of anyone who might have done this?"

"No, like I said. He loved the Navy and he loved the people he worked with. And in the few times I'd met some of them, they seemed to love him too."

Both agents nodded in silence. They each wanted to find a way to ask the one question that was in the forefront of their minds, but neither knew how to broach the subject. Luckily, it was broached for them.

"Am I…do you know when I'll be able to get his…body? I guess…" after quieting a small sob, she continued. "I guess I'll have to start making funeral plans."

"Someone will be in touch once the autopsy is finished," DiNozzo said.

At this, something in the young woman's expression changed. It wasn't horror, which the agents sometimes encountered when the loved ones of victims realized that there had to be an autopsy, but something more akin to fear.

"Autopsy?"

"Yes, which does remind me," McGee began carefully, trying not to scare their interviewee. "We noticed that CPO Moore had two thin scars on either side of his spine, shoulder bones and stretching down to about the middle of his back."

A small look of relief flashes across Natalie's expression, which Tony recognized. She had been afraid that Moore had been found with his wings out.

"Oh, well…those are old scars. He had to have surgery after a mountain biking accident a few years ago. He fell back and hit a rock, and it punctured one of his lungs and broke a couple of his ribs."

"Well it's funny you say that, because that's what confused our M.E.," DiNozzo fibbed. "He couldn't find any evidence of past trauma to the bones or his lungs."

"Really? Well, I'm not exactly sure-"

"Natalie," Tim cut her off, forcing her stop mid-sentence and look him in the eye. The junior agent could see her really look into his face for the first time. He saw her notice the slightly odd, unnatural-looking shade of green in his eyes. "Was Seamus a flightling?"

"What? No! What even is a-"

"Please," Tony murmured. "We're not here to get you in trouble. We just need to know the truth."

She was silent for a moment, glancing back and forth between the two men. Finally she said, just barely louder than a whisper, "how do you know about flightlings?"

"I am one," McGee said.

The young woman studied his face for a few more moments before she was convinced. At this point her shoulders slumped and she let out a huge breath she was holding.

"I sort of thought you might be, but honestly I can never really tell."

"So he was, then?" Tony confirmed.

"Yes. He had these gorgeous tan wings….and his eyes were sort of odd like yours are," she nodded to Tim. This made the senior agent snort and McGee's lips quirked up.

"Oh I'm sorry, that's not what I mean," Natalie said quickly. "I loved Seamus' eyes."

"I understand."

"Wow," she said. "I feel better telling someone that. I couldn't tell the police because I knew they'd think I was crazy."

"So you're not a flightling, then?"

"No. It runs in my family. My sister is one. But I'm not. Honestly, besides her and Seamus, I don't know any others."

"I'm sorry to ask this," Tim said slowly. "But did he ever…" he trailed off, not sure how to ask his question. But Natalie picked up on the unspoken words and immediately rushed to her boyfriend's defense, her words coming out rushed and earnest.

"He didn't kill humans. I _swear_. I mean, how would we be together if he did? He thought it was wrong. And he said he didn't even see the point of stealing souls, since he needed to eat like a normal person to survive…." she rambled. "Here," she got up and rushed to her bedroom and came back with a shoe box. In it were a stack of photos, and at the very bottom, a picture of Moore, his wings out, head back, laughing at something. Tim took the photo and studied it closely. Indeed, their victim's massive wings were a light tan color. Not at all gray as they would have been if he stole the souls of humans for sport.

"That's the only picture I have of him with his wings out," Natalie murmured.

Once DiNozzo had gotten a chance to examine the picture, he handed it back to her.

"So he didn't really know any other flightlings, he didn't go after humans, and he kept a very low profile," McGee mused.

"Right."

The three sat discussing Moore's habits and daily activities for a little longer, before the agents rose to take their leave. Tim took out his business card and handed it to Natalie.

"If you think of anything else, please call us."

"I will. Thank you, agents."

With that, Tony and McGee left.

"Do you think he was hunted?" Tim asked as soon as they were on the road.

"I don't know. I don't wanna promise anything, but it doesn't sound like it. I could be wrong, though. It wouldn't make sense if he kept it a close secret and never killed anyone. How would anyone even know he was a flightling?"

DiNozzo's stomach growled and he changed the subject. "Let's get something to eat, I'm starving."

This reminded McGee of his plans with Victoria to talk over dinner later that night. He groaned.

"What?"

"Hold on," Tim said, pulling out his phone and tapping through his contacts. In half a minute, he had his cell pressed to his ear.

" **Hello**?" Victoria answered on the second ring.

"Hey."

" **Hey Tim. What's up? Are we still on for dinner tonight?** "

"That's actually why I'm calling. We just got a case this morning and I might end up working late."

" **Oh, well we can always push it back if you want! I don't mind.** "

"Would you happen to be out right now?"

" **Yes, I'm just driving to different open houses for apartments and townhouses in the area. Why?** "

"Would you want to meet us for lunch? I'd like to talk about the case with you."

" **Really? I'd love to meet you. I don't know how much help I'll be, though.** "

"Trust me, I think you will."

" **If you say so. Where should I meet you?** "

Tim glanced at DiNozzo. "We're still in the process of picking a place, but how about I send you the address when we get there?"

" **Sure thing.** "

They hung up and McGee turned to Tony. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all, Probie," the older man said, tone light and casual.

The junior agent contained a smile. He hadn't thought so.

…...

Gibbs sat on a park bench near the Navy Yard, people watching and sipping coffee.

"You know, you guys at NCIS may be able to just sit around like this, but I've got work to do," FBI Agent Fornell quipped as he sat down next to his old friend.

"You're the one who suggested we meet here, Tobias," Gibbs quipped right back.

"Yeah, to get away from all the work I have to do," Fornell chuckled, opening the paper bag he brought with him and handing over a burger. "So your vic's a flightling?"

"Yeah. Found in a park out by Fairfax, gunshot wound to the forehead, close range. We're thinking he was killed somewhere and brought to the site."

"Wings out?"

"No. And McGee checked his clothes, they weren't cut for wings."

"So he probably wasn't hunting when he was killed," Fornell said.

"DiNozzo and McGee are out interviewing the girlfriend to see what kind of person he was."

"There haven't been any reports recently that look like flightling killings around here. I hate to say it but I'll take human-on-human crime over that any day."

"Yeah, well our victim was a flightling. He's also a sailor and a CPO and it's our job to get whoever killed him."

"Hell Jethro, I didn't say he had it coming."

The two men went quiet for a minute while they ate.

"Could you ask around and see if there's any hunter around here I don't know about?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure. Although it's gonna take me a little while to get ahold of people. I haven't gone after any flightling since you all came back from Italy."

The NCIS agent gave his friend the side eye, and Fornell rolled his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that. I know you haven't been hunting since then either."

Gibbs looked away and smirked. Tobias continued.

"How's your guy doing with all this?"

"McGee? I haven't had a chance to talk to him about it," came the admitted reply. "He looked kind of off while Ducky went over the autopsy, though."

"It really probably isn't anything to worry about. I've never heard of a hunter killing a flightling up close like you said. That's insane. Even you wouldn't do anything that dangerous. And there are so few of them, and probably less than half a dozen hunters within 300 miles of here….He probably wasn't hunted at all- his killer probably didn't even know he was a flightling."

Gibbs nodded before taking another bite of his burger. Honestly? He hoped that Fornell was right.

….

"Talk to me," Gibbs said as all of the agents reconvened in the bullpen. McGee handed Ziva a wrap they'd bought for her during their lunch meeting with Victoria.

"The girlfriend knew what Moore was, says he never hurt a fly. She's human, so I'm inclined to believe it, because who dates someone for three years if they're just planning on taking their soul... wait, I can probably come up with a joke for that-" Tony said, and Ziva interrupted.

"I spoke with higher ups again, on both the _Normandy_ and the _Reagan_. Everyone on both ships seemed to like Moore very much. I have scheduled time to interview coworkers from the _Normandy_ tomorrow."

"Good. Fornell's going to ask around, see what he can do and find out if there's anyone in the area we should know about who might be involved," Gibbs said.

"Victoria's going to poke through the grapevine and see if she can't find anything out, too," McGee added. "And she agreed to go see Ducky tomorrow and answer any questions he has."

"Did we get any belongings from the girlfriend?" Ziva asked.

"One laptop and a cell phone," Tim answered, looking back at Gibbs. "Abby's working on them now."

The team leader nodded. "Go help her."

…

McGee looked through Moore's cell and huffed, frustrated. Nothing in the phone even remotely suggested that Moore had any enemies. And while of course a person could have enemies without any evidence of such on their phone, all this meant was that they still did not have any viable leads.

"I wish I had a weapon to trace," Abby said, not looking up from where she was examining Moore's laptop. "That would give us a suspect."

"If this guy was hunted for being a flightling then we'll probably never end up catching a lead," Tim said, to which the forensic tech looked up in surprise.

At first, when the team had gotten back from Italy, Ducky, Vance, and Fornell had been the only others told about the events that had taken place- and about McGee's secret. But Abby was one of Tim's best friends, and she had noticed that something more was going on than the thin cover story Vance had sold to everyone. A person's eyes don't just change shades of green because they'd been shot, right? Eventually, she cornered Tim and demanded to know what was going on- the reason being she knew he needed support for _something_ , and she wanted to be there for him.

Truly, McGee wanted her to know his secret. She'd been kind enough to adopt his dog, Jethro, when he'd been declared dead, she'd stood by him for ten years, and had been a best friend and confidant for all this time even after they'd broken up. So one day, he sat her down with the rest of the team and they told her what flightlings were.

Per Tim's request, they'd left out the brunt of their experiences in Italy: the blood war between ancient flightlings, the torture, the violence…but the gist of the story was told: McGee being shot and saved by Apollo and Victoria Clark, his loss of memory, his powers, and the fact that he was keeping it a secret from his family.

Perhaps surprisingly, the goth had no idea what flightlings were until they told her.

Unsurprisingly, she took it really, _really_ well.

She'd since helped her friend with his research on his own genetics and DNA in their spare time and even helped him test the capacity of his flying abilities and elevated strength.

"All of the locations the phone catalogued are completely ordinary, based on what Natalie told us," McGee said, glancing between his computer and the phone.

"Same with the laptop. And there aren't any weird files or docs, just things important to his work and financial statements. Even his browsing history is normal for a guy," the forensic tech replied.

"Well, he hasn't been living in the area long, so if he was being targeted by someone, it was for a pretty short period of time. And if he knew about it, he didn't let on at all."

"What did you mean, 'if he was hunted for being a flightling,'?" Abby asked, calling his attention back to the point.

"We're positive he didn't kill humans, right?" Tim began. "Well if he didn't kill humans than he _wasn't_ killed for being caught in the act of murdering a human. If he wasn't murdered for some normal reason that NCIS would usually see, then we can conclude that he was hunted just for _being_ a flightling."

Abby stopped what she was doing and looked over at him, a hint of fear in her eyes. "Is that something that happens?"

"I actually don't know. Hopefully Victoria will find out while she's looking for people to talk to."

"I want to meet her," the goth said, her tone back to teasing. "I feel like you've been keeping her from me. Are you afraid she'll be too scary for me to handle?"

Tim laughed. "Well, she just got in a few nights ago. And if anything," he glanced over at his friend. " _You'd_ be the one to overwhelm _her_."

She swatted him playfully before going back to the laptop.

The elevators dinged and Tony stepped off and came over to where the two were working.

"Any luck?"

"Nothing yet. I'll keep looking," Abby informed the senior agent.

McGee rose from his chair. "There's nothing on his phone."

"I came to see if you'd hack into Moore's email for me."

"We're looking at his email right now," Tim said.

"Only his personal one," Abby supplied. "It wasn't password protected on his laptop but his work email is. I was going to ask you to do it when you were finished with the phone."

"Ziva talked to Moore's commanding officers and his MPCO forwarded us something that he'd sent her at one point, but that's all she could give us. They didn't know his password and when I spoke with IT they needed special permission from Moore's bosses to hack into his military email…"

"So you just figured you'd get me to do it and cut through the red tape?" McGee deadpanned, already knowing the answer. The older man grinned.

"That's right, McGoo. Do what you do best."

"Do you mind waiting for me to finish with the laptop before you do?" Abby asked.

"It's ok, keep working. I can do it from my desktop," Tim said.

They left the tech alone in her lab and stepped into the elevator to head back to the bullpen.

"So we've got no suspects, almost no evidence, and no leads…" McGee groused.

"Hey, cheer up," Tony said in an attempt to rally his friend's determination. "Ziva's doing a bunch of interviews tomorrow. That should give us something," after a pause, he switched gears just a bit. "What gets me is the fact that he was definitely picked up in front of his apartment, but he was found like an hour away."

Tim agreed as they stepped off the elevator. "Whoever did it was smart enough to get him by surprise, but probably didn't plan on how to get rid of the body."

"Maybe they panicked after they killed him and just rode around trying to think of a place to dump him. Didn't plan everything out- that suggests he was just waiting for an opportunity but hadn't been planning for long before this happened."

McGee nodded again, then paused to reach into his pocket as his phone buzzed. "Why is Ziva texting me…?" he began to ask, unlocking his cell as he rounded the divider on the far side of the bullpen. Because of his distraction, he didn't notice that DiNozzo had stopped short in front of him until it was too late. He bumped into his friend, his strength almost knocking the senior agent forward.

"Sorry, Tony, I…" Tim looked up and everything seemed to move in slow motion. He glanced at DiNozzo's paled faced and followed his line of sight to Ziva, who was staring back at them with a panicked expression. The reason for this look was the woman who was standing next to the Israeli, facing the windows. The woman turned at the sound of the newcomers and across the bullpen, Timothy McGee locked eyes with Penelope Langston.

His grandmother.

Who thought he was dead.


	6. Chapter 5

***Ten minutes earlier***

Ziva sat at her desk, her shoulder pressed up to her ear to keep her phone in place. She had already scheduled time to drive to Norfolk the next day and speak with several of their victim's friends and coworkers to get a better sense of Moore's life, to pick up any possible leads and to meet possible suspects. Since Norfolk was a bit of a drive from the NCIS headquarters in the Navy Yard, the ex-Mossad agent wanted to follow up on any minute piece of evidence that Ducky's autopsy had turned up thus far. Abby had been able to narrow down the possible weapons used to shoot Moore based on the entry and exit wounds, and Ziva was now calling arms stores and pawn shops in the Norfolk area to inquire about any recent purchases of any of these types of firearms.

Unfortunately, this was slow going. Firearms merchants can get pretty defensive and evasive, especially when questioned, however politely, by investigators.

Still, Ziva wasn't a quitter and she persevered. She was on the phone with the third dealer of the day when who else but Penelope Langston walked into the team's bullpen.

McGee's grandmother.

Of everyone on the team, with the exception of perhaps Gibbs, it could be easily argued that Ziva was the most unflappable. But Penny's sudden appearance was almost enough to make her drop her phone from her shoulder. A shock of alarm ran through her spine and the younger of the two women had to resist the urge to blurt out, "what are you doing here?" which would of course come off as rude and brusque, and which Penny did not deserve.

This rush of thoughts occurred within the span of a few moments, and no one would have been able to detect the emotions that this new development had inspired, save perhaps the tiny quirk of one eyebrow and a small widening of Ziva's eyes.

Penny noticed that she was on the phone and gave a small wave, mouthing "hello" and gesturing to indicate that she was sorry to interrupt and that the agent finish her phone call before worrying about greeting her.

Still, Ziva said "I'm sorry, I will have to call you back," to the person on the other end of the line and returned her office phone to its receiver.

"Oh, you didn't have to hang up for me!" Penny protested.

"Believe me, I would much rather talk to you than some suspicious salesperson in Norfolk," she responded, standing and walking around her desk. "Hello, Mrs. Langston."

"Penny, please," the older woman said with a smile. Then, without prompting, she said, "you're probably wondering what I'm doing here, huh?"

"It is always nice to see you. In fact, I haven't seen you in a year. But I am surprised to see you in our office, yes. How are you doing?" Ziva responded honestly, now doing a perfect job of concealing just how much stress Penny's presence was causing. Her brain was already working overtime to appear unperturbed, but to also notify McGee that his grandmother was in the bullpen. While she personally felt that Tim should tell his family that he was alive, she acknowledged that the decision was entirely up to the junior agent. And if he wanted to reunite with his grandmother, it definitely should not come as a shock to them both, in the middle of the MCRT bullpen, when McGee wasn't ready.

The older woman laughed, always her positive self. "I'm doing alright. I'm sorry to barge in on you in the middle of a workday like this, but wouldn't you know it, I lost the business cards that you, Agent DiNozzo, and Agent Gibbs gave me at Tim's funeral. I called Sarah to get your work phone number, but when I called this morning there wasn't an answer and I assumed you were out on a case. I would have just called again, but I was in the area and I wanted to see you today because I'm leaving later this week for a trip to Florida."

"I am sorry I missed your call," Ziva said genially. She was still thinking of a way to get Penny away from the bullpen until she could notify McGee of what was going on. "While we talk, would you like a drink? Water? Coffee? Anything to eat?"

"Oh no thank you, dear. I just had a late lunch."

Damn it.

"But that brings me to why I'm here," Penny continued. "I was going through some of Tim's old things that I'd gotten when he passed away," her expression took on a more stilled mask, but Ziva could see the flash of grief beneath the surface. Her own heart twisted at the sight. The older woman shook it off, however, and continued. "I found quite a bit of papers and photos and books, and I wondered if you or anyone on your team might want any of them. Don't feel pressured," she added quickly. "I'm happy to keep them, but a few of the things I found reminded me of his time at NCIS and made me think of you. I know he loved you all very much, and I think he'd be glad to see you have them."

"That is very kind of you," Ziva replied. "Let me text Tony and Gibbs and get them here so that we can all talk about it together."

She pulled out her phone and began to text as fast as she could. Instead of texting the two men she'd mentioned, she pulled up McGee's contact while Penny looked out at the gray sky past the office windows. The Israeli sent a string of texts to the junior agent, saying _"do NOT come to the bullpen,"_ and _"Penny is here."_ Before she could call Tony (or Tim, and pretend to be speaking to Tony), Ziva heard the voices of the two men in question drawing nearer. She looked up, and saw DiNozzo's eyes widen as he rounded the corner and took in the situation in front of him. McGee was just a step behind, and he looked up from his phone as he stepped into the bullpen.

Everyone froze.

Penny turned.

McGee went a ghostly shade of white.

….

He should have known.

There was no way he could go for this long. It was stupid, it was plain, unadulterated _hubris_ that had brought him to this point.

Did he really think that nothing would happen if he tried to stay dead while continuing to work, under the same name and identity that he'd always had? It was amazing enough that he'd been able to notify the federal government of his being alive, getting a new ID and an SSN without tipping off his relatives. But this? How had he not seen this coming? He couldn't have his coworkers check in on his biological family without them one day coming to _see his coworkers in person_. This was his fault, this moment and everything that was about to come after it.

Tim did not curse often, but at that moment, he felt the urge to let out a rather creative string of expletives, directly entirely at himself.

But he didn't. For as bad as his anger at himself was, it paled in comparison to the other emotions running through his system like poison. Fear made his heart pound in his ears, guilt for what he'd done made his cheeks flush, trepidation at how he'd be received forming a lump in his throat, relief that he was finally seeing his grandmother flooding everything in between.

For her part, Penny at first stayed entirely silent and entirely still. She doesn't faint, or shout, or even speak. Speechlessness was a foreign concept to her, but then, this wasn't exactly an ordinary situation. For a moment, she wondered if she'd finally gone crazy, if this was a hallucination, a mental breakdown. Her grandson couldn't be standing here, looking healthier than every. _Alive_. But out of the corner of her eye she could see Agents David and DiNozzo and their shocked, fearful expressions and she knew that her eyes did not deceive her. But she doesn't pay much attention to that. She didn't see much of anything really, as she stared across the bullpen to where Tim stood. She doesn't even notice the tiny details that have changed in her grandson since she'd last seen him. Not the more expensive clothes, not the sight increase in muscle tone or the better haircut or even, at first, the more vibrant shade of green in his eyes. She just sees Timothy McGee.

Tony and Ziva shared a look, both asking the other what to do, both silently demanding that the other be the one to step in and say something.

Finally, Tim spoke, realizing Penny, for once, wasn't going to be the first to say something.

"Hi, Penny."

She doesn't answer his greeting, and this heightens the fear prickling the back of McGee's skull.

"…Why don't we go somewhere quiet where the two of you can talk," Ziva suggested. Tony led the way up the stairs to the nearest conference room. Ziva put a gentle hand on Penny's shoulder to guide her and Tim followed behind the others, keeping a respectful distance. He felt very much like an elementary school child being sent to the principal's office.

His grandmother still hadn't said a word when they entered the conference room. Tony gave McGee a silent look, questioning whether he wanted his friends to leave them alone. Tim gave a small nod, which DiNozzo returned before closing the door behind him.

He turned to Penny, who was staring at him, a mix of emotions so complex swirling behind her eyes.

"Penny…"

She went up to him, and put one hand on his cheek. "Tim?"

"Yeah, it's really me," he said, trying to smile but not quite succeeding. Penny pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, which he carefully returned. McGee's eyes closed and he could feel tears pooling a bit. When he finally stepped away, he could see that his grandmother had tears in her eyes as well.

"You're alive," she said, relieved, her voice bright. She sounded like she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. It wasn't a question, but a statement and this somehow made it easier for McGee to answer.

"I'm alive."

At this moment, Penny froze, and the energy shifted. She stepped back and her eyes narrowed at him, despite the tears of joy that had overflowed and were running down her face. She took her purse and whacked her grandson in the arm with it.

"Hey!"

"You've been _alive?_ All this time?! And you never _told_ us? You never _said_ anything? _You just went right back to work?!_ "

"Penny…"

"Do you know what we've _been_ through? We thought we'd lost you forever! What, did you just fake your own death?"

"Not exactly-"

"I can't believe that you, of all people, would do this."

"I know. But-" Tim tried again.

"I want to know what you were thinking," his grandmother ranted. "Why? Just tell me why?"

"I'll tell you-"

"You'd better!" she said, no longer shouting, but clearly frazzled. Penny had always had perfect comedic timing, even when she was trying to be serious, and if the situation hadn't been so emotional, her ranting might have been funny.

"I will."

Suddenly as she looked back at him, relief and joy seemed to fill her again and her anger dissipated. She pulled him back in for another hug.

"I can't believe you're alive."

"I know. I'm sorry about all this."

"Was this something to do with your work? I thought when you'd joined NCIS it wouldn't be like some CIA job but you've been dead for a year and here you turn up alive. So I must have been wrong…"

"Penny."

"No, no. Don't explain anything to me yet. I just want to look at you," she stepped back and looked up at his face. It was then that she paused.

"What?" he asked cautiously, wondering if she noticed what he thought she'd noticed.

She had.

"Your eyes…" she said. "They're different. More green."

He didn't answer right away, unsure of how to respond. Suddenly, Penny's mood shifted again, this time to a combination of curious and cautious.

"Tim…are you...what happened this past year?"

He looked down into her face and made his decision. Leading Penny over to sit in one of the conference table's chairs, he pulled out the one next to her and turned it so that he was facing his grandmother directly. He took a deef breath, let it out in a huff, and began.

….

Penny Langston was by no means a delicate person whose feelings needed to be spared. She was a peace activist. She was a strong, independent woman.

Still, she was also his grandmother and she didn't need to know the gory details of Tim's more unpleasant experiences.

So, for both the sake of time and to save them both unnecessary stress, McGee decided to further elaborate on some of the details later.

He supposed he shouldn't be surprised to find out that she knew what flightlings were. But saying the word out loud to her…it changed a lot for him.

"So I, uh….I guess you know about flightlings?"

"Yes. How long have you known about them?"

"Not until this past year…"

From there he launched into the story. He explained how the team had to go to Italy for a case, that he'd been shot while pursuing a suspect, and that while he lay there gasping out what he'd thought would be his last breaths, an older and more stately flightling had found him and rescued him. By chance this activated that part of himself that had laid dormant for his entire life- his flightling genes had become known and in the process he'd lost some of his memory in a hazy mist of amnesia. Tony, Gibbs and Ziva thought he'd been killed by the flightling, Apollo, and Gibbs had trained his agents to become hunters. Meanwhile, Tim had taken up with a loving pair of flightlings, Apollo and Victoria, and had learned more about himself. He'd lived with them until the rest of his team returned to avenge him, at which point he reunited with his friends and his memory was restored. Before he could decide what to do from there, they'd all been caught up in a blood war with an evil, ancient flightling, and after an extended period of time fighting, running, and fighting some more, the team had been victorious. However, Apollo had been killed. So everyone returned to America and McGee rejoined NCIS, choosing to stay "dead" these past few months until he could decide whether it would be best to come forward and tell his family he was alive.

Penny stayed quiet while he explained everything, only asking the occasional question where she was confused. At the end, she felt saddened by all the things her grandson had been through in the past year, yet relieved to understand. Everything made so much more sense.

"I wish you'd told us," she said. "But I know why you didn't."

Tim nodded. He had so many questions for his grandmother, but he knew that it wasn't the right time to ask them.

"I understand why you're angry," he responded. "I…I also understand if you don't want to see me anymore."

He looked down, but looked back up in surprise as Penny pulled him in for yet another hug.

"Of course I want to see you again, Timothy. In fact, I never want to let you go."

This warmed his heart and McGee had to work not to let more tears spill over. God, he hadn't cried in ages but here he was, tears running all over the place.

"I can't believe you're a flightling," Penny said, leaning back to look at his eyes again. "Like your grandfather."

This was news to him. In fact, this revelation startled him out of his emotional state.

"He was?"

He had never met his grandfather; he'd passed away before Tim was born.

His grandmother nodded and hummed her affirmation.

"Yes, he was."

"…But you're not?"

"But I'm not," she confirmed. "I knew about them before, I had some friends... It was the sixties, you know? Lots of minorities and unique individuals coming out of the woodworks to fight for equality. In certain circles, flightlings were a bit more open about who they were. But only with their closest friends."

"Is that where you met Grandpa?"

"Oh, no. I knew your grandfather before he left for Vietnam. He told me what he was when we got engaged. I had suspected, based on what I knew of other flightlings, but I wasn't sure until he told me. He didn't know that I knew what flightlings were. He expected me to be so much more shocked than I was," she said, smiling fondly at the memories.

"Then your father was born. Your grandfather wanted him to be a proud flightling, and I did too, but he didn't turn out to have the genes for it. We did a bunch of punnit squares," Penny laughed softly. "But since I didn't have any flightling genes to speak of, and your grandfather's father hadn't been a flightling, there was a chance that he wouldn't be, and we knew that. We loved him the same, of course."

"So Dad knows," Tim said slowly. "He knows about flightlings, but he isn't one."

"No. Which, part of me was glad for, because being a flightling can complicate life quite a bit, as your grandpa well knew."

"Does…does my mom know?" he asked.

His grandmother's expression softened. "No, I don't think your father ever told her. I insisted that he tell her, once she became pregnant with you, because there was a chance that you- or any of their children- could be a flightling, especially since we had no idea what your mother's heritage involved. But he said that he would deal with it only if the problem arose. And it never did, so it sort of went forgotten. It was a non-issue. None of our living relatives were flightlings, and as far as we know, there are very few in America these days, so there was a very small chance that even if you did carry the right mix of genes, nothing would ever come of it."

McGee could remember the disdain that his father sometimes seemed to feel for him during his childhood, and wondered if this was the reason for it. But then again, his father didn't know he was a flightling. That disdain was always just for Tim being himself. "Why is Dad so against flightlings if his own dad was one?"

Penny looked down for a moment. "Honestly? I'm not quite sure. I tried to talk to him about it several times before and during your life. Your grandfather loved your dad so much. They were very close. He never had a problem with the fact that your father wasn't a flightling. But John…at some point after your grandfather died, just became more and more distrusting and suspicious of flightlings. I don't know why. He never would tell me. I always suspected that its because he wasn't a flightling himself, or that he'd been attacked by a flightling and never told us."

"Was Grandpa…did he…?"

"No, he never killed humans," she assured McGee quickly.

"Penny….I have so many questions."

"I'm sure you do," she nodded. "I don't blame you. But I have a question for you, too." When he looked up at her, she continued. "Are you going to tell the rest of our family that you're alive?"

Tim closed his eyes, sighed, and one hand came up to massage the back of his head. He had so much information buzzing around in his head he thought he might explode. Everything he'd learned from Penny only made things more complicated. Why did his father hate flightlings if he himself was descended from one? Admiral John McGee had never really liked his son, even when he thought Tim was _human_. Did his mother really not know about flightlings? If he didn't want to come forward to his dad, could he really just come forward to his mother and sister? Of course not. Could he tell his family he was alive and not tell them he was a flightling? No, probably not, because just hugging Sarah might turn her into a flightling and he knew she should not be forced to live a life full of secrets and self doubt, especially since she was so happy and successful at the moment. And even if that didn't happen, since the Admiral knew about flightlings, there was very little chance that he wouldn't notice right away what his son had become.

And on a more grand scale, he wondered about his ancestors; what kind of flightlings were they? What did this new information about his genes mean for his research, for his ongoing debate on instinct vs. choice, about expanding powers and whether being a flightling made him programmed to be a killer.

But on a more pressing matter: if he decided not to tell the rest of his family that he was alive, could he really ask Penny to keep that secret for him? To lie to her loved ones for him?

"I…I don't know," he admitted. "I've been thinking about it ever since I came back to America. I just…I don't want to tell them if it won't make anything better."

Penny wanted to smack him again and remind him that his being alive and well would be the best thing that could possibly happen to his family. However, all those questions bouncing around in Tim's mind began to occur to her as well, and she realized that there very well may be a good reason not to tell the rest of their family what had happened.

Personally? She wanted him to tell everyone that he was alive. But there was so much in the balance, that she knew it was up to her grandson to decide what he wanted. As much as she loved her son and her granddaughter- and even her ex-daughter-in-law- she knew that the Admiral was never particularly loving to his son. Tim and his mother hadn't spoken for quite some time before his "death," and his sister couldn't be expected to keep that secret from her own parents; it would be unfair to everyone.

"I can't tell you what to do," Penny said gently. "It is completely up to you. But I will respect whatever you choose. If you decide to keep it a secret, I'll do that for you."

This time, it was McGee who pulled his grandmother in for a hug.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear."

When they separated, he huffed out a deep breath to refresh the mood of the room. "I need a few days to decide."

"Of course, take your time," she said, then something new occurred to her, and she sighed. "Oh, I'm supposed to be visiting some friends in Florida for a couple days this week. I don't know how I'd do that now that I know you're here."

"No, no, that's great," Tim assured her. "I'll take a little bit of time to think about…well, everything."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Penny examined him closely. He looked very much exhausted by everything that had just transpired, and while she wanted to be selfish and stay by his side and never let him out of her sight ever again, she knew that wasn't what he needed. What he _did_ need was time to process what had happened. He needed time to think.


	7. Chapter 6

Decisiveness is a gift. In fact, it is such a useful gift, and so out of reach for some of us, that for the generally cautious and indecisive, it is practically a super power.

Tim McGee had never in his life been an impulsive person. Now, he could pick a restaurant when he was hungry, no problem. And he didn't usually find himself spending way too much time choosing between two shirts when getting ready for work. However, he was, like many of us, cursed with the need to think through and plan out all important parts of his life, which of course all too often leads to overthinking. His analytical and cautious nature demanded he not move forward towards the resolution of a problem until he'd thought out all paths, all possibilities, and all potential ramifications of big choices.

The agony of choice could not be taken lightly. Especially not now.

For four days after his unexpected reunion with Penny, McGee had drifted through the world on autopilot, expending most all of his conscious energy and time on making the biggest decision of his life. To some this would be all too simple, this choice, but it had worsened his already existent distraction and mental turmoil.

His nightmares got worse. And now they were far more specific. He would look down at himself, see his hands covered in blood, and look up to see Sarah, his sister, shying away from him in horror. He would try to put away his wings and reach out to her, but she would simply run from him. He saw his father, saw the Admiral's disdain, evident in every line on the older man's face, and know exactly what caused that disappointment. These nightmares weren't all that helpful.

McGee had been able to put off the decision about whether to tell his family he was alive because there hadn't been a deadline. He'd been foolish enough to believe that if and when he saw his family, it would be on his own terms. But the appearance of Penny reminded him that he could be revealed to them all too suddenly and randomly. That wasn't how he wanted to do it. And as Ziva had argued, the longer he "stayed dead" before letting them know what happened, the more hurt they would be. So even though he knew his grandmother would never give him an ultimatum or a deadline to decide what to do, he also knew that he needed to make a choice

But something kept stopping him. Any time the logical part of his mind concluded that the answer, then, was to tell his family that he was alive now, it never _felt_ right. There was no relief, no finality, even, that often came with making a difficult decision. So it never became a finalized decision. It just kept compounding and causing more pressure to build up in his chest. It too-well matched the weather that week, during which time another wave of stormy weather had rolled in and the air was hot and thick, pressure building towards an inevitable storm that seemed desperate to break, but didn't for several days. Either way, the gray skies and heavy clouds matched McGee's mental state closely.

That night after Penny had left NCIS and Tim had been left alone to his thoughts, Gibbs had found out what happened and sent his junior agent home without debate, knowing that the younger man wouldn't be able to focus on much else. Once home, McGee had texted Victoria, who had rushed over to his place. Once the work day was done, Tony and Ziva had also arrived, and the little group went over Tim and Penny's conversation, and did their best to offer their support. They all asserted that they would of course stand by him no matter what he chose, and that he should do whatever _he_ felt was best, not what was best for anyone else.

That was four days before now, when Tim was standing on the little balcony that was just off the doors in his apartment's kitchen. He had been careful to choose a home where he was on the top floor of his building, and where he could take off from the little balcony without being spotted by anyone in surrounding buildings. That night, with the air still as thick as it had been all week, so the odds were good that no one would be out to see him anyway.

He'd flown north-west from his apartment, flying towards more rural and woodsy areas to avoid being seen. He usually didn't worry about that at all, no matter where he was flying, as he'd learned how to get around without being seen and shot down even in D.C., but his lack of quality sleep and continuing nightmares had made him jumpier than usual.

Honestly, at this point, he almost wanted someone else -anyone else- to make the decision for him. He just wanted to be done with this.

But that wasn't how his problem was going to be fixed, and he knew that.

The misty wind ran through his feathers but it didn't give him the comfort that flying before a rain always did. Instead he was left with a feeling similar to an unresolved sneeze; there was no satisfaction, no comfort. He still felt tense and tightly wound and even when he picked up his speed and shot higher up into the air, wings flapping as hard as they could. Tim reached an incredibly high altitude —high up even for someone with wings— and then he just….stopped.

Wings closed tight against his back, McGee closed his eyes and arched his spine just a tiny bit. This, along with the inevitability of gravity, brought the agent backwards and he allowed himself to fall for a few seconds before opening his eyes, snapping his wings open and righting himself.

Well, at least he finally figured out how to do a backflip. Maybe this exercise would afford him a deep, good night's sleep for the first time in the past few days.

(It didn't.)

…..

The mood was a tad bit lighter at work, but things weren't progressing much faster. For those few days, Tim looked steadily more tired each morning, and each day he insisted he was fine when his team expressed concern for his wellbeing. The case of Chief Petty Officer Moore's death was at a standstill, as the MCRT had come upon no new evidence and almost no leads. The day after Penny's visit, Ziva had gone to Norfolk and interviewed everyone who knew and worked with their victim, and the rest of the week had been spent following up on alibis and tracing even the most remote of leads. Nothing.

Tim was at his desk, typing, while DiNozzo and Ziva watched the flatscreen. Gibbs was listening while going through records and paperwork belonging to Moore to see if anything in the officer's personal belongings would indicate a motive for his murder.

"Did we get confirmation that the office's janitor was at work when Moore was killed?"

There was a pause.

"McGee."

No answer.

Gibbs looked up from the paperwork. Tim had been staring into space and even Ziva's gentle call to get his attention did not rouse him from his thoughts.

Jethro rose and came to stand in front of his junior agent. "McGee."

The stern voice of his boss could probably wake him from a coma. Either way, it certainly got his attention, and Tim snapped out of his reverie and looked up in surprise.

"I'm sorry, Boss."

He typed on his keyboard to pull up the information his teammates needed, but Gibbs kept his eyes trained on his agent.

"McGee."

The younger man looked afraid for a moment, expecting his boss to send him home. But Jethro simply said. "Go take a walk. Get everyone some coffee."

Gibbs then stepped back and exited the bullpen. On the way out he called back, "and get yourself a double-shot of espresso."

When they were left alone, Tim looked over at his friends. "Sorry, guys."

"Do not apologize, McGee. But Gibbs is right."

"You need caffeine. Badly," DiNozzo agreed.

"A good night sleep would be better," Ziva added, "but for now, yes. Coffee. And tea for me, please."

The junior agent sighed, but a small grin came to his face, and he stood and grabbed his keys. "Tony?"

"You know what I like, Probie."

"Right. And Victoria's coming by to help Ducky with the rest of Moore's autopsy, so if she's here before I get back…"

"We know what to do, McGee."

"Right."

With that, Tim headed toward the elevators.

Not long after, Victoria arrived.

"Hello," she greeted, entering the bullpen, almost cautious. She examined the scene in front of her. "All this time, and I finally know what your work looks like."

"Hey," Tony said, standing up automatically, if a bit quickly. Ziva smirked to herself a bit before she also rose to greet their visitor. Gibbs entered the bullpen as well, and nodded, his lips quirking up a bit when he saw Victoria.

"I see Tim isn't here, but I'm supposed to meet your M.E. to go over the details of the autopsy for your victim…"

"I'll take you," DiNozzo offered, flashing his signature smile. She smiled in a show of thanks and followed his lead to the elevators behind the catwalk. Ziva and Gibbs shared a look and then went back to work.

….

Tony and Victoria each stared up at the dark screen in the elevator, watching the numbers tick down as it brought them towards the morgue.

"Would you have ever imagined, a year ago, that we'd be here?" Victoria asked, glancing over at DiNozzo.

"What?"

"You know, like, how a year ago next week, you all were in Italy when Tim was shot. And you thought we killed him. And then you came after us a few months later?"

Understanding her meaning, Tony chuckled. "You mean, the first time we all met, did I think that we'd all be here a year later, my best friend would be a flightling, and I'd be taking one of the flightlings we thought _murdered_ my best friend down to meet a member of our team so that she could help us solve a case? No, never occurred to me."

She laughed softly. "Honestly, even the jump from the time your team met us to just a couple of weeks later is astounding. First meeting, you stab me. A few weeks later, you're helping save my life."

"In my defense," DiNozzo said, though his tone remained playful. "You did dislocate my shoulder."

"Fair enough. Although you did chase me down an alley with a gun in your hand," she retorted, equally playful."

"The next time, I believe I threatened you and you threatened me," he added.

"And look at us, now," she concluded.

"For the record," Tony responded, "I'm glad we were wrong about you."

Although this was meant to be said playfully, it had too much of a ring of sincerity to it to come off as a joke.

"I'm glad we were wrong about you, too," she said, looking over at him, before quickly adding, "all of you."

They both looked back at the doors to the elevator as they slid back to allow them access to the autopsy lab.

"Ah, Anthony. To what do we owe this pleasure-" Ducky began, looking up from his desk against the wall, stopping short once he saw Victoria. "Oh, I almost forgot we had a guest today."

"Ducky, meet Victoria."

"Doctor Mallard, it is so nice to finally meet you in person," she said warmly, holding out her hand to shake. However, the elderly ME took her hand in both of his and instead of a normal handshake, squeezed it to show his own delight in meeting her.

"Call me Ducky, please," the doctor responded with a smile. "The pleasure is all mine. And it is very nice to finally have a face to match with the voice."

When McGee had returned to America and Ducky had asked to learn more about flightling anatomy, Tim had called Victoria to put her on speaker so the three could talk. She mentally noted that the NCIS medical examiner looked exactly as she'd pictured him.

"I sent my assistant, Mr. Palmer, out to get us some lunch, so I'm afraid we won't have very long to discuss Chief Petty Officer Moore before he returns," Ducky said, walking over to the last of the autopsy tables to pull back the sheet covering CPO Moore, so that his torso and head were exposed. "But I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help. We have had him for longer than the average victim, and I would like to return his body to his loved ones soon."

"To be honest, I'm not sure how many of your questions I'll be able to answer," Victoria admitted. "I'm not exactly a doctor."

"That is quite alright," the elderly man said, still cheerful. "You will certainly know more about flightlings than I ever have or will, and between my medical knowledge and your experience, we should be able to get the job done."

Tony, meanwhile, had watched on, not really knowing whether he should stay or go. But Ducky answered this silent question for him when he said, "Anthony, if you don't mind sticking around for a bit, in Mr. Palmer's absence I may need an extra pair of hands."

"I don't mind doing that for you, Doct-" Victoria corrected herself, "... Ducky, if Tony needs to get back to work upstairs."

"I do not doubt it, my dear," the Scotsman said. "But I actually would prefer your hands to be free so that you may point out things that I need you to, and jot down notes. I have a list of questions I would very much like us to take a crack at."

Ducky went over to his desk, took a couple of pairs of latex gloves, and handed each of his newly-appointed assistants a pair. He also took a clipboard with his autopsy notes and the queries he had, and a pen, and walked back towards the table.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," the ME stopped himself. "I always check to make sure that visitors are prepared to see a body before I pull back the sheet…It completely slipped my mind."

"Oh, that's alright," Victoria assured him quickly. "It didn't bother me. I've seen enough dead bodies at this point that something this clinical doesn't bother me at all."

Ducky nodded. "I suspect I've heard only an abridged version of what you all experienced last year, but I know enough that I'm inclined to agree with you. Nevertheless, I admire you for it. Now," he said, brightening once more. "Let's begin."

…...

"To be honest, you never struck me as the Chinese takeout type," Tim remarked that evening, as he handed Victoria a carton of orange chicken. The two sat on his sofa, a movie playing quietly in the background.

"I didn't always live the way I do now, you know. I'm more than Apollo Clark's…heiress," she grimaced, breaking apart her chopsticks before brightening again. "You forget that I was a normal college student once. Before I found out I was a flightling." Looking down at the food in front of her, she inhaled and said, "I will admit it has been…. _a lot_ of years since I had anything like this."

McGee chuckled and dug in to his mushu pork.

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?" Victoria suddenly asked. "The circles under your eyes are awful. And you've been jumpy."

"I've had a lot on my mind," he deadpanned. "You know. Staying dead. Telling my family I'm a flightling, a murdered sailor who is also a flightling…"

"Ok yes, I can see how that would weigh on a person. But couldn't you take some melatonin or drink some herbal tea before bed?"

"It doesn't work."

"Well, something stronger, then."

"No," Tim shook his head, though his tone was soft. He kept his eyes on his food, moving his chopsticks around the carton absently. "I've had nightmares this week. Pills don't make them better."

Victoria went quiet, but while her friend kept his eyes on his takeout, she reached over and put hers on his coffee table. She then grabbed the remote and turned off the TV, which earned her McGee's eye contact.

"What kind of nightmares?" she asked.

"Victoria-"

"What kind of nightmares?" she repeated.

Tim sighed. "It's nothing, ok? Just stress from this week going crazy while I'm asleep. It will get better once we solve this case and I decide what to do."

His friend studied him for a moment, and he could tell she was entirely unconvinced. However, she did not pursue the matter further.

"If you say so. So, does that mean you've gotten any closer to deciding?"

"Not really…." after a pause, he looked back over at her. "What do you think I should do?"

She took picked her food back up and this time it was her turn to rifle through it with her chopsticks, avoiding eye contact.

"Well, are you still kind of concerned about being discovered by any other family members?"

"Actually, not really. The team never knew my mom, and she lives in California with her husband. My dad hangs up every time anyone calls him and even _mentions_ me….and if Sarah were to come into the office —which she never would, I'm sure of it—but even if she did, I have a plan to make sure things wouldn't happen the way they did with Penny this week."

"Ah," she nodded.

"So what do you think?" he asked again, quietly.

"I…I don't have an opinion on it, Tim. I can't. I've never met your family. I know you love them, but…I also know something has been holding you back, though I don't think even you know what that is…but then again, like Ziva has been saying, you have to think about what will happen down the road. I know this must be agony for you, and I'm not saying you have to make this choice tonight, or even this year. But if you do want to be a part of their lives again, you should probably do it before it's too late. You should probably do it before Sarah has kids and a family of her own. It will hurt them more if you show up later and they realize that you'd been alive for years before telling them."

Victoria paused, gathering her thoughts, then put her hand on his.

"You don't have to tell them at all if you don't want to. And you don't have to justify your feelings here. But if you are going to tell them you're alive.… Even if you do tell them, you wouldn't necessarily be obligated to tell them what you are…unless you show up thirty years from now, when your younger sister is in her fifties and you look forty."

McGee looked at her and saw the sadness in her eyes. Unlike him, she'd had no family other than the man they had in common, who was now dead. Her life had been full of travel and comfort and a familial love she hadn't known until adulthood- until Apollo found her, and then they had been kind enough to save his life and take him in. So he was all she had left. Yeah, she had all the luxuries and comfort she did when Apollo was alive, and she had been warming up to Ziva and Tony, and Tim knew that even Gbbs liked Victoria in spite of himself. But it would be a long while, if ever, that she would be _that_ close to them. And while she did have friends all over the world from her old life, he was all she had that even resembled a family, especially on this continent. He didn't mind the responsibility of such a title, however. Honestly? She was truly an amazing fake-sibling to have.

He reached out for her and put one hand on her shoulder, which made her smile. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, and they went back to eating their dinner.

"Oh, I forgot to really tell Penny more about you. I will when she gets back, though. She's going to want to meet you."

"And I'd love to meet her. From what you and your team have told me, she's quite a character. I was glad to meet Dr. Mallard…Ducky… today, too. Now all I have to meet is Abby."

McGee laughed. "She'd love to finally meet you, too. She keeps bothering me about it. In fact, she'll kill me if she finds out you were at the Navy Yard and I didn't bring you to meet her."

"All the more reason. Wouldn't want you killed on my account."

They stayed that way in comfortable quiet, chatting about nothing in particular, enjoying their meal and their movie. When it was over, Victoria paused on the balcony off of McGee's kitchen. She was about to take off and fly home, which was a lovely flat she'd found only twenty minutes away. Before leaving, the young woman stopped and turned to Tim.

"Are you sure you're going to be ok, tonight?"

"Yes. Of course I will be, why not?"

"Because you're meeting your grandmother tomorrow to talk about where your head is at and I think that you don't actually know where your head is at."

"I'll be fine, Victoria. Really."

She studied him once again, and once again he knew that she didn't buy it.

"Fine. But please at least try to get some rest?"

"Scout's honor."

She gave him a quick hug before climbing up onto the railing and Tim stepped back so she could spread her wings wide. In a springboard-style leap, she launched off the railing, and shot upwards, twisting in a barrel roll before disappearing from view.

McGee smirked. "Show off."

The comfort that spending time with his friend provided faded with the passing hours, however. In its place came the same dread and distraction that had been living in his head for days.

He showered, paced around his apartment, drank tea, and laid in bed for over an hour, attempting to clear his mind and will himself to sleep.

When he lifted his head and looked at his clock, Tim saw that even though he'd been lying there for a while, it was barely past 9 PM, and he was no closer to unconsciousness.

He had to get his mind straight. He had to make a decision.

McGee rolled out of bed and put on a comfortable set of street clothes. He walked over to his kitchen, grabbed his keys, then closed the balcony door behind him. Tim took one deep breath and launched himself out into the night just as thunder cracked across the sky.


	8. Chapter 7

The air felt so thick that the moderate D.C. area felt practically tropical. Well, to the locals who weren't used to such humidity. The sooner it rained, the better.

And while it was even more hot and humid and story in Florida, Penny wished she could be back in the Sunshine State like a normal "senior citizen." But normal had never been applicable to Penelope Langston, and while she wasn't as young as she'd once been, the term "senior" was not even remotely appropriate. There were people half her age out there who had less life and fire in their minds and bodies than she did.

Still, maybe it was the right idea, retiring and heading down to the beach to forget all sense of responsibility and just bask in the freedom of it all. She had always loved beautiful, tropical climates, domestic and foreign alike, and it had been a lovely trip to visit her friends. But Penny couldn't have stayed in Florida even if she tried; how could she, when her formerly dead grandson was alive, and _here_ , and he needed her help? Her flight home had landed a couple of hours earlier, but she had barely put her suitcase down in her foyer before she was out the door again, this time driving to a place she hadn't been to in quite some time. It was only 9 PM, so she knew she wouldn't be barging in on a sleeping household, and the fact that she did not call ahead before arriving at her destination was only to her benefit, because where she was going, there was a good chance she wouldn't exactly be welcome. Maybe that wasn't quite true, although she knew that she wouldn't be welcome for a while after tonight.

Penny had plans to meet with Timothy the next day and discuss his next steps, (or if he even wanted to take any steps at the moment,) and she had promised herself that she would stand by him, no matter what he chose to do. But before this meeting with her grandson, she had to speak to someone else.

Lucky for her, it did not start drizzling until she pulled up to the house, and even then, they were just lazy, scattered drops, so she didn't get wet as she walked to the porch and rang the doorbell.

After just a few moments, the door opened, and Admiral John McGee blinked out in surprise at her presence.

"Mom?"

"Hello, John."

"What are you doing here, Penny?"

"I'm sorry to barge in this late, but I just got back in town this evening and I need to talk to you about something important."

"Of course, come in," he said, standing back and opening the door wider to allow her access into the house. "Is something wrong?"

"Don't worry, no one is sick or anything like that," she said, to put her son at ease. "But this was on my mind, and I thought it might be an issue in the future that we should discuss as soon as possible."

The admiral was used to his mother's eccentricities, but they still annoyed him. He blew a huff of air from his nose, his sign of skepticism. "Let's go into my office. Do you want coffee?"

"I'd love some."

After two hot mugs of instant coffee were made, the two settled down into John's study, which was filled with dark mahogany and plush furniture. Various awards, pictures, and vintage military paraphernalia were displayed in frames and antique cases around the room. Penny recognized her late husband's military medals in a frame right behind her son's desk. As she sat on the dark leather couch, she saw that the side table next to her had a picture of Sarah.

She also noticed that there wasn't a picture of Tim anywhere.

"Now, what is it that you wanted to talk about?" John asked, sitting in the armchair across from her.

"Well…" she began. It suddenly occurred to Penny that she hadn't planned how to bring up this conversation topic. "You know that Sarah has been dating her boyfriend for several years now."

"Yes?" her son quirked one eyebrow.

"I'm fairly certain they're going to get engaged some time soon. It's just a hunch, but I've been thinking about it since the last time I spoke with Sarah. You know that once they get married, there is a very good chance they'll have children. And if they do, there is a _possibility_ that their children will be flightlings."

Several micro-expressions flashed across Admiral McGee's face. Penny saw surprise quickly become replaced by a guarded curiosity and anger. But she continued. "I think you should at least tell Sarah about their existence and the fact that the genes run in the family."

"No," came the immediate reply. After a minute, he added, "I've met the boy, he doesn't look like a flightling."

"He doesn't _look_ like a flightling? How do you know, how can you be positive, that he just hasn't come into contact with another flightling, that he's just a sitting duck that could be changed any day. And for that matter, how do you know that Sarah couldn't be the exact same way?"

"My daughter isn't a flightling."

"You don't know that, John. Your father was, your grandmother was."

"But neither of Sarah's parents are flightlings," he retorted, referring to himself and his ex-wife.

"It's about the probability of the genes and you know it. If you'd had siblings they might have been flightlings, even you aren't." Penny let her slowly rising temper cool for a second before calmly saying. "Even if Sarah and her boyfriend aren't, which you still don't know, who knows who this boy's ancestors were? Are you willing to let there be even the most remote possibility that your first grandchild- or any of your grandchildren- are flightlings, just waiting to be changed, while their mother has no warning and is unprepared for that eventuality? Because let me tell you, I regret not making sure my own grandchildren grew up knowing more about your father, and about where they come from and who they _are_ …or who they could be, rather."

At first her son did not answer, but after a few moments, he said, "Sarah is not a flightling, even potentially."

"You sound so sure."

"I am. Her roommate for all four years of college, who is still her best friend…she hugged Sarah once, in front of me. It was so casual, she was just telling her hello after they hadn't seen each other for summer break…but I saw her eyes, saw the scars on her back when she put her hair up…Sarah always thought they were scars from a scoliosis surgery, but I knew better. And I noticed it just as they hugged each other. I panicked for a minute, but then…nothing happened. Sarah didn't change, and so nothing else did, either."

"Would you have still loved her anyway?" Penny asked, a touch of bitterness and sarcasm in her voice.

"Of course I would."

"But it sounds like you were so _relieved_ that she wasn't a flightling. Your father was a flightling, John. Why wouldn't you be proud to have children that are, too?"

"I have one child. The other one died, remember?"

Despite the ugliness of this statement, Penny saw the genuine grief on her son's face for a moment (so subtle that only a mother could notice it —and she did,) but his suppressed feelings did little to quell the anger building inside of her.

"You have two children, no matter what happened to him. And he has…. _had_ ….a name. Timothy. Just because you never bothered to show that you cared about him when he was alive doesn't mean you have to pretend that you don't care now that he's dead and it's just the two of us talking about him."

"Listen," her son said, his own anger beginning to rise to the surface, "you don't get to tell me that I didn't love my son."

She sighed, trying very hard not to turn this into a shouting match. "Sweetheart, I love you more than anything. You, and your kids, are more important to me than anything else on this earth. But you've only hurt them and yourself by hiding this part of who our family is."

The admiral growls under his breath, muttering excuses. "We just see this differently, Mom. And you're not going to change how I've chosen to raise my kids. Especially since both were adults and one was killed."

"You know what? You're right, we do see things differently," Penny agreed. " But we've always loved each other. We're family. I'm your mother and you're my son. Just like Tim is…was….no, _is_ , your son, even now that's he's…gone."

"My mother or not, you have no right to even _imply_ that I didn't love my son," John replied, his anger growing once more. He got up and paced around the room, finally coming to a standstill behind his desk. After all of his years in the military, this position of assumed authority was where he was most comfortable. But Penny got up to stand on the other side of the desk opposite from him, leaning towards him, caught up as she was in her emotions.

"I know you did. But you never showed it enough, and he never really believed it. And now that he's gone, you've let his memory fade from your life just like you did with your own father when he died. There's not a picture of your father, or your son, anywhere in this room, and I'd wager there isn't one anywhere in the house, so that if people come by, you don't have to answer questions about either of them. You never understood Tim, you had hoped to get a son more like you. But he wasn't, and you couldn't trust that. I suppose we were all just lucky that Tim was never a flightling, especially during his childhood. Who knows how badly you would have ignored him then."

"How _dare_ you-" her son said, his voice just a decimal below shouting at this point. But honestly? Penny was too angry to care.

"Oh, I gave birth to you, John. If i _dared_ to bring you into the world I can _dare_ to challenge you when you're wrong." After this, she paused, and her voice softened considerably. "Why did you wake up one day and suddenly hate flightlings? And why did you wake up one day and decide that your father and your son didn't exist beyond the fact that your father was a war hero," she gestured towards her husband's old medals on the wall, "and your son was killed in the line of duty? They were both so much more than that."

"Do you expect me to break down and weep over people that have been gone for a year, or for decades?" John scoffed.

"Then at least answer the question about flightlings," she insisted.

At first, she thought he might decline, but he looked over her head and spat through his teeth, "I know what they're capable of. They're monsters."

"They're all monsters, are they? Your father was a monster? The soldier who carried his men out of battle on his back? The man you still want to be so much like, even if you pretend he doesn't exist? He was a monster?"

"No…"

"Your son would have been a monster? Your daughter would have been a monster? Honestly, dear. You are so much smarter than that. If your son _had_ turned out to be a monster, it would have been because of the fact that his father didn't hug him enough."

"That's _enough_. Don't give me that hippie crap, Penny," John commanded at his mother, still angry and loud.

But Penny Langston was not a woman to be commanded.

"You are so much your father sometimes. You got his sense of duty, and patriotism, and stoicism….and you always like to think you are nothing like me because you think I'm a communist and a hippie. But you're as much me as you are your father. You got my determination for a cause, and my stubbornness, and my pride."

At this, John was refreshingly quiet. She sighed. "I won't tell Sarah. Right now, anyway. But if she does end up having children in the future, we'll have to talk about it again."

"You keep thinking that, Penny. But I won't change my mind.

"That is so you, thinking you can change nature like that. Like you have any say over those things. Just tell me this. Would you really, honestly, have accepted your son, if he had turned out to be a flightling? Would you have loved him the same as Sarah, even if Sarah was also a flightling?"

This time, he didn't even bother to defend his uneven feelings for his kids. Instead, he simply declared, "neither of my children are or were flightlings, and none of my grandchildren will be."

Penny stared at him for just a moment, before deciding that her son was a lost cause. A few minutes later, as she left that house, stepped out of the now-pouring rain and into her car, she realized that whatever Tim chose to do, she suddenly wasn't so keen on one of his options, which she had been entirely supportive of, before.

…..

Gibbs was never really taken off guard when he got visitors to his basement. He was usually expecting them, knew they were coming before they did. This night was no exception. When McGee showed up at the top of the stairs, Jethro looked up at him, unsurprised by his presence but somewhat surprised by the fact that his agent was soaked. Thunder crashed outside, notifying Gibbs that the constantly postponed rain was finally happening.

"You fly here, McGee?"

"I flew half of the way, but once it started raining I landed and got a cab."

The older agent reached for an old towel to toss in Tim's direction. "Go change."

"I'm ok," he replied, toweling the water out of his hair. Upon Gibbs' look indicated that of course this wasn't a request, McGee quickly went upstairs and changed into some sweatpants found in the drawers of the guest room. He shed his jacket and luckily, his t-shirt was still mostly dry, so he finished toweling it off before returning to the basement, admittedly feeling much better. Remembering again why he was there, however, he went quiet and sat down. A few moments of silence commenced before Jethro spoke.

"You decide yet?"

Tim didn't even bother asking how Gibbs knew this was the issue on his mind. "I don't know what to do, Boss. Penny promised she wouldn't tell anyone I was alive if I didn't want her to, but I know she's not happy about it."

"She's your grandmother. She'll do whatever you need her to."

"I know. But I don't want to put her through that."

"You're not putting her through anything. You're putting yourself through more right now."

Tim let out a big huff of breath. "I think I deserve that much if I've gone this long without telling them."

"You punishing yourself?"

"No, but…" his agent trailed off.

Gibbs kept working on the project in front of him, which was starting to look like a toy train for a small child. "You went this long without telling them. Think about why."

"What?"

The older man was fairly certain that McGee had the highest IQ of anyone on the team, but his agent was doing his damnedest not to see the truth in this situation. Jethro turned to look at Tim directly. "Most people would immediately call their families to tell them they're alive. You didn't."

Upon seeing the guilt cloud those vibrant eyes, Gibbs tried again to get his point across, shaking his head slightly to let McGee know that he wasn't trying to make him feel bad. "I know why you didn't, Tim. But those reasons aren't going to change. So you gotta decide if you want to tell them anyway."

McGee nodded, quiet. Gibbs watched the internal struggle rise to the surface and run rampant across Tim's face. He continued to stare at the ground, deep in thought, and his boss turned away to give him a moment. The older man was about to reach for a hand tool to go back to working, when McGee finally spoke.

"I would have called you."

"What?"

"I would have called you. And the team. If you hadn't been the ones to find me, and my memory had come back on its own, I would have called you guys first. Right away."

Jethro turned back to Tim. True to form, the older man's expression didn't betray his thoughts, though somewhere deep down, he was touched and yet, unsurprised. That's just how his team was. He waited without speaking, knowing that McGee would have more to say. Tim was still staring at the ground but his eyes were distant; the look on his face seemed to indicate that he was in the midst of a realization- one that bothered him. Without looking up, he spoke again, as though in a trance.

"…Because I know you guys would come for me. You guys would want to know I was alive."

"You know Sarah and your mom and dad would want to know too."

"I know, but…"

Gibbs knew exactly what was wrong. McGee loved his biological family so very much. But his relationship with his parents, and to an extent with his sister, was less than satisfying. And he was fine with that. Or at the least, over the years he'd learned how to love his family without being as close with them as he would have liked. He'd been at peace with it. He was a grown man.

The problem was that when he was declared dead, the frayed, delicate cord that held him to his family was broken. And of course it was truly heartbreaking for everyone-at first. But now they'd all healed the best they could. What's more, it was clear Tim wasn't sure that the pain of rebuilding those frayed relationships would actually be worth the emotional value of the relationships themselves. Yes, it was cold. Yes, this was his family. That's why this decision was hurting him so much.

McGee went over to the desk and sat on the bench. He stretched and then startled himself when his wings came bursting forth from his back. Luckily, he'd elected to keep on his own t-shirt, which was cut in the back to accommodate his wings. Still, Tim frowned at his own lack of control over the appendages, even though he knew well enough that he was simply tired and not paying attention.

"Do you actually want to tell them, or do you just feel guilty for not telling them?"

"Guilty," Tim almost whispered.

"You don't have to tell them if you don't want, McGee."

"Boss…I can't think of anything more selfish I could do to them."

"Protecting your family from something this big," Gibbs said, nodding, unperturbed, in the direction of the enormous wings draped across most of the basement floor, "isn't selfish, Tim." As an afterthought, he added, "Protecting yourself from your family isn't selfish either."

Tim stiffened as though his boss had slapped him upside the head. Suddenly it occurred to him that, deep down, this had been his main concern. His mind had danced around the thought, never putting the feeling into words but always keeping him hesitant. Now that it had been posed to him so bluntly, McGee realized the truth: either his family really knew about flightlings or they did not. If they didn't, knowing his family, there was no way they'd just accept him for it. And if he was being honest with himself, even if they did know, he wasn't sure they'd accept him anyway.

…And if he was being _completely_ honest with himself, he wasn't sure he wanted (or needed) to be a part of that family anymore.

He hadn't really spoken to his mother or father in a couple years before all of this had happened. Sarah and Tim hadn't spoken to each other for several months before his supposed death; not from any bad blood or disagreement, but simply because they had other things on their minds. And when he'd asked Tony whether the Admiral even showed up to his funeral, DiNozzo's avoidant, non-answer led him to conclude that he hadn't. His father hadn't shown up to his funeral. If he had to be declared dead, and then miraculously "found alive" to save the relationships he'd had with his family, then really, they weren't relationships worth saving, were they?

This was hurting so much that tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and his vision blurred for a moment. He still loved his family. He'd die for any one of them, even now. Making a decision to let them go felt so final, so absolute.

Nevertheless, McGee took a deep breath, composed himself, and looked up. With an uncharacteristic tact (or perhaps with characteristic wisdom) Gibbs was looking down at his workbench, sanding another small piece of wood.

"I'm not going to tell them. I'll ask Penny to keep it a secret."

Jethro put down his work and turned to him again. He didn't smile, since this was not exactly a happy occasion, but he did nod, and the corner of his mouth twitched. The older man had never revealed his thoughts on the matter, but he'd agreed with DiNozzo all along- Tim obviously cared for his family and always would but whenever they showed up in his life, they only seemed to cause him pain. And it wasn't as though the agent would be turning his back on his family- they'd already moved on from him.

"You ok?" he asked.

"Not really."

These days, Gibbs didn't go through bottles of Jack Daniel's as often as he'd once done, but he did still keep a large bottle of it on hand, and he poured some for his agent. Despite the fact that he never liked whiskey, Tim downed the mason jar in one go. And then coughed and gasped, earning a small smirk from Jethro.

Once he'd settled, McGee was quiet for a minute, before he said, "I think I know what I'm going to tell Penny. I have an idea of a way to make sure Sarah is taken care of, even if I can't physically be in her life."

The boss nodded. "Whatever it is, we'll help you with it. You know that."

Things were comfortably silent before his agent began again. "You know, we never really talked. About this, I mean."

The senior agent looked over at the younger man, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

"About me being a flightling," McGee clarified, gesturing to his wings as though Gibbs wouldn't understand what a flightling was without a visual.

Jethro looked back at the project on his worktable. "What'd you want to talk about?"

"Are you….are you okay with this, Boss?"

"Am I okay with it?"

"I know you hunted flightlings for a long time. It doesn't bother me that you did. But does it bother you that I'm something that you hunted for so long?"

Once again, Gibbs put down his work and turned to face his agent. "McGee. I can't take back the hunting I did. But I always hunted flightlings known to be dangerous. I shouldn't have gone after Apollo all those years ago, but that was my mistake. I'm glad that you got to meet him, and if there was anyone who had to teach you about flightlings when you lost your memory, I'm glad it was him. Once we all sorted things out and I knew how he lived, I respected him, even if I didn't always show it. And I'm sorry you had to go through all kinds of hell for it, I'm happy that you found out you're a flightling. You've changed a lot since then. And I'm proud of you. No matter what, you're a part of the team. You're good, and you don't waste good."

Tim stared back at his boss, using all of his strength not to let his jaw drop. He'd needed to hear that. Badly.

"Boss, I…thanks," he choked out, his voice barely more than a broken, whisper.

Gibbs nodded, his eyes soft and edges of his lips turned up, even if he didn't fully smile. "C'mon. You're sleeping here tonight."

"You don't have to…" Tim began, but Jethro didn't let him finish that thought.

"You're not gonna get a cab in this storm. Unless you wanna fly home."

A particularly lock crack of thunder rattled the house, and McGee flinched.

"Good point."

The younger man led the way up the stairs out of the basement, and with one less thing on his mind, he was able to fall asleep almost instantly. He had passed out before his head hit the pillows on Gibbs' guest bed.


	9. Chapter 8

Three days later, Sarah McGee arrived at NCIS, trying her best to contain the sadness that crept up on her as she looked up at the building. Her brother had worked there once, had grown and changed and turned from a nervous MIT grad to a confident agent. It was almost the one-year anniversary of his death. She'd cried for weeks after his funeral, filled with guilt at the state of their relationship when he'd died. She had been so wrapped up in her own life that their once close-knit bond was all but nonexistent. And she knew for a fact that her parents hadn't spoken to him in years, either. Their father hadn't even shown up to his own son's funeral, which Sarah would never forgive. But still, the world spins on, and she'd tried her hardest to pick herself up and live her best life, like she knew her brother would have wanted. And in fact her life was going very well at the moment. She was dating a great guy- they were about to celebrate their three-year anniversary together. (Tim had actually met the boy once, years before, and after an extensive background check, had approved.) She'd also finished up her master's degree and got a job that paid well enough for her to live on her own.

Yes, she'd picked herself up and was doing well. Which is why it was a surprise to get a call from Penny asking her to come to the Navy Yard of all places. Apparently there were matters to discuss concerning Tim's job and former coworkers.

When the elevator dropped her off, she stepped onto the floor where most of the agents worked. It looked exactly the same as it had when she'd been brought there, years before, after she'd landed straight in the middle of one of Tim's cases.

Her heart pounded a little when she got her first glimpse of his team- they looked the same as they had at her brother's funeral. They were all standing around the bullpen, waiting for her, and they'd turned as soon as the elevator dinged; the three agents were joined by her grandmother, as well as a pretty young woman who appeared to be just a few years older than Sarah was.

Penny went up to her first and hugged her. "Hello, Sweetheart."

Sarah was greeted by Ziva and Tony next, and was given a polite nod from Agent Gibbs. Then Tony turned towards the other woman, who had been waiting respectfully over by Tim's old desk, which Sarah was surprised to see was empty and cleared, save the light and computer. She'd assumed that this girl, dressed as she was in wide-legged business pants and a button-up shirt, was the agent hired to fill her brother's place on the team. But DiNozzo's introduction quickly set her straight.

"This is Victoria Clark. Victoria," he gestured between them, "Sarah McGee."

"Hi Sarah, it's nice to meet you," she said, offering her hand to shake. Sarah immediately noticed the striking blue eyes behind a pair of thick turtleshell glasses. "I'm working with your grandmother and Agent Gibbs' team concerning Tim's legacy at NCIS."

"His legacy?" Sarah asked, looking to her grandmother in surprise. Her brother's will had already been executed; she'd gotten his Porsche and a handful of his personal belongings, which reminded her of him and which she held very dear. At his request, most of his money had been divided between herself, her parents, and Penny. She'd been grateful to be included in his will, and the small amount of money she received helped pay off several months' worth of rent.

"Why don't we go somewhere quiet to talk about this," Ziva suggested, and the agents led the way to a small meeting room down the hall. Sarah was offered a drink and then everyone settled around the meeting table. Penny sat next to her, and Ziva sat on her other side. Agent Gibbs sat on the end of the table, and across from Sarah, Victoria settled in. Tony sat on the other side of Victoria.

Sarah couldn't help but feel like she was being scrutinized. The woman across the table looked at her so intently, with an analytic, almost curious expression. Not judgmental, but intrigued. As though she recognized her and was trying to place her. As though she knew Sarah.

"Ok," Victoria began, adjusting her glasses. "So, I'm sure you know that your brother opted not to receive a pension, which would have gone to you and to your parents."

After Sarah nodded, she continued. "NCIS has recently set up a scholarship fund for the relatives of agents who were killed in the line of duty. Considering the fact that you were still in school for your master's degree at the time of Agent McGee's passing, and considering the fact that Agent McGee came up with the idea for the scholarship and contributed so much to its creation, we felt that it deserved to go to his family- to you."

"Oh…oh my god," Sarah said quietly, looking around the room at each of the agents. She half expected this to be a joke. "Really?"

To her surprise, it was Agent Gibbs who responded. "Really."

Penny squeezed her hand. Victoria smiled softly and went through the pages in the file until she found what she was looking for. Finding the check, she held it out across the table. Sarah carefully, slowly reached for it and then looked at the amount. When she saw it, she let out a small, involuntary gasp.

"Oh my god," she said again, her voice thick, vision blurry from the tears that had sprung to her eyes.

It was, at least to her, a _huge_ amount of money. It would pay off most, if not all, of her student loans. She felt an enormous weight lifted off her shoulders. In just a moment, she no longer had crushing student debt- she could move into a nicer apartment, and start working on and planning for her future. The pay from her job would allow her to set up a cushion fund- even, maybe, allow her to start a retirement fund. She had been rocketed years ahead, financially. The emotions this stirred up in her caused her to cover her face and break down into silent sobs. Her grandmother rubbed her back, a soft, happy laugh escaping her. Everyone in the room had to do their best not to cry themselves.

"You know your brother loved you very much," Ziva soothed. "He would be so glad to see you have this."

Sarah nodded through her tears, her sobs turning to small hiccups.

"Thank you," she said, her voice now raw. "Thank you so much."

It took Victoria a moment to realize that Sarah was talking to her. "Oh, well… of course. Really, your brother is responsible for this. Like I said, this scholarship was largely his doing."

After a pause, Tony spoke up. "Actually, I have this for you, too."

He produced a small envelope, with Sarah's name printed on the front in familiar handwriting.

"It was…This was found in his desk," Tony said in a quick attempt to cover up the fact that the letter had really been written the night before. The young woman took the envelope and opened it with shaky hands. In it was a simple piece of printer-paper, filled with Tim's large scrawl.

 _Sarah,_

 _If you're reading this, it means something happened to me at work, and that, most likely, I was killed or incapacitated somehow in the line of duty. If that's the case, hopefully Tony or Ziva will find this and give it to you. Whatever's happened, I want you to always know that I loved being an agent. I loved working at NCIS and I loved working with my team. And no matter how it ended, I don't regret a second of it._

 _Please take care of Mom and Dad. And Penny. I know they can be a pain, but they love you. And I know that things haven't been great between me and them (not so much Penny, but definitely Dad) over the years, but please tell them that I love them so much. Believe it or not, I'm grateful that I got to have Mom and Dad as my parents. I'm even grateful for how they raised me because the choices they made led me to make the choices I made, which brought me here. Tell Dad that I'm sorry I couldn't be the son he wanted, but that I'm happier being a disappointment to him than I ever was before. And that no matter what, I'm proud to be his son._

 _I'm proud to be your brother, too. I'm so proud of the person you've become and I know that you will do amazing things. If you're reading this, then like I said, something happened to me at work, which probably means that I've gone way too soon- sooner than I wanted. I'm sorry if I have to miss your grad school graduation. I'm sorry I'll miss your wedding. I'm sorry I won't get to see you have kids. I would have loved being an uncle._

 _Even if something does happen and I do miss all of that, I'll always be with you. I'm there right now, if you are reading this. I'll be right behind you every step of the way, even if I can't physically be there. Please promise yourself- promise me- to live your life to the fullest and to take care of yourself. Which reminds me, if you ever need anything, please, please reach out to Tony, Ziva, and Gibbs. They promised me once that if anything happened to me, that they would be there for you. And they are._

 _I love you so, so much, Sarah. Don't forget that I'm with you. Even in the moments when you're down and don't believe in yourself, know that I always love and believe in you. I can't wait to see what you achieve and who you become._

 _Love, Tim_

Penny watched her granddaughter read over the note composed by her brother, and while she hadn't read it, she had a vague idea of what it said. Part of her still thought that Tim should have come forward to Sarah, but she also knew that in his usual self-deprecating way, her grandson believed that his sister truly was better off with a large check rather than a living brother. And while she knew everyone in this room would disagree, the financial weight that had been visibly lifted from Sarah's shoulders in front of everyone came a close second in terms of emotional payoff.

Finishing the letter, Sarah smiled through her tears.

Only a few steps out the door and down the hall, in MTAC, the camera placed in Victoria's fake glasses broadcast the scene in real time. Staring up the screen, alone as he was, McGee smiled through tears of his own.

….

"Wanna go out?" Tony offered. Over the years, the team had gone out countless times to celebrate particularly good cases and to recover from particularly bad ones. While the true events of the day were not related to any case, they were certainly mentally taxing enough to warrant a few drinks.

McGee's first impulse was to go home and sleep off his emotions and just be alone for a little while. But something made him nod and grab his belongings out of his desk. Maybe it was the sense of loneliness he felt now that he'd officially said goodbye to his family. Or at least, to his parents and sister. Penny had taken Sarah home, with a texted promise to Tim that she would call him later. In the end, even she had to admit that what McGee had done for Sarah _might_ be worth the decision not to force himself back into her life. Tim had offered to pay for a new car or home or vacation for his grandmother, but she wouldn't hear of it. He did, however, manage to obtain a promise from Penny that if she, or any member of his family, needed more money or assistance, she'd notify him right away. With the money he had he could certainly afford it, (the check that he'd provided for Sarah barely putting a dent in his bank account) and if it was protection his family ever needed, he could certainly manage to watch over them- almost literally a guardian angel on earth.

The junior agent followed his coworkers and Victoria to the elevator. When they'd all stepped on and the doors closed behind them, it really hit him that with the exception of Abby, Ducky, Palmer and Penny…everyone who cared about him, was right here. This was all he had now. This was his family.

Honestly? It didn't feel much different.

….

The next morning, Tim drowsily rolled over and then was fully woken up when he accidentally rolled himself straight off the bed.

Upon hitting the ground, he groaned and opened his eyes, only to find that it wasn't his bed that he'd fallen off of, but rather, a couch.

Tony's couch, to be exact.

He did not specifically remember ending up at DiNozzo's apartment, much less his friend's living room sofa, but at least it now made sense that he'd rolled off this narrow sectional, as opposed to his large, king-sized bed. Ugh. His brain was having trouble catching up this morning.

McGee slowly sat up, took a moment, and then worked his way to a standing position. He wasn't hungover, but he was sore, most likely from spending his night on his makeshift bed. He stretched, careful not to let his wings burst forth and knock over anything in Tony's apartment, before turning around and being startled when the senior agent was standing in his kitchen, watching his younger friend with more than a hint of amusement.

"Ok over there, Probie?"

"Yeah, I think so," Tim replied, chuckling at himself. "I don't remember ending up on your couch, though."

"I'm pretty sure that's because of the exhaustion, not alcohol," DiNozzo informed him. "You only had two drinks but by the time we got back here to watch a movie, you were barely on your feet. You fell asleep before Ziva and Victoria left, so I figured I'd just let you stay here."

"Thanks," McGee said earnestly. "I'm sorry I fell asleep on you guys, though."

"You needed it. Speaking of which, you want coffee?"

The younger man nodded as he went over to the kitchen area of Tony's home. DiNozzo poured a large mug from the coffee pot and slid it over to him.

Tim took a big gulp, barely noticing how hot the coffee was. Almost immediately he could feel his body coming back to life. He hadn't slept that hard in a while. And even though he wasn't actually drunk the night before, he suspected that the two drinks did help the exhaustion along to knock him out cold. "What time is it?" he suddenly asked, remembering that it was a weekday.

"Eight thirty. Gibbs is letting everyone come in a little late today, so you're fine."

"That's not like him," McGee frowned.

"Well I think it has something to do with you getting buzzed after officially saying goodbye to most of your biological family," the senior agent quipped. "It's not an everyday trauma. Even for us."

"Wait…was I really that buzzed?" Tim asked, a bit of panic edging its way into his voice. He didn't remember being truly drunk, but if his memory wasn't serving him correctly, then he had even more to be worried about. He wasn't the type to really enjoy being intoxicated, but in public, he had to be very careful not to lose even an ounce of his self-control. With his powers and his wings…getting drunk in a place where there are oblivious humans could open a door to all kinds of trouble.

"Relax, you were totally fine until you got here. Besides, we would have stopped you if you started to go to far or anything."

"Which would never happen…how would you even stop me, anyway?" McGee interrupted himself. "It would take you and Ziva…and probably Gibbs…to overpower me. And even then, that might not do it."

"That's why Victoria was there," Tony grinned. "She'd be enough to take you down."

"Oh, is that why you like having her around so much?" Tim grinned back.

"I don't know what you're talking about," DiNozzo asserted, downing the last of his coffee and heading towards his room. "I'm gonna get ready. You wanna take a shower?"

"I'll head to work, actually," Tim said. "I've got spare clothes in my desk, I'll just take a shower in the locker room."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. See you in a bit."

Just over an hour later, McGee, Tony, and Ziva were all gathered around the flatscreen in the bullpen, staring at the compiled information they had on their case and exchanging theories. They had gone too long without any developments, and the sparse evidence dredged up by Abby's forensic work and Ducky's autopsy did not provide even a hint of a lead. The agents knew that if they didn't make any progress soon, the case would become too stagnant and they would have to devote their time and effort to other cases, until eventually this case went cold and was all but abandoned. They all hated when this happened, but Tim felt a bit too close to the case, (their victim being a flightling, after all,) and he was determined to have justice for CPO Moore.

Still, life almost never went the way they wanted it to.

"Grab your stuff," their boss said as he entered the bullpen.

"Another case, Gibbs?" Ziva asked, surprised.

"We're still working on this one," Tim added. It wasn't unusual for the MCRT to have more than one open case at a time, but murders usually took precedent and their investigation was still fairly fresh enough that it seemed like another team should catch this morning's new file.

Jethro would normally agree, but these circumstances were not exactly ordinary. "Dead son of a Lieutenant Commander was found this morning. He was nineteen."

The rest of the team grimaced. They hated when their victims were young. "Still, why us? Can't another team take it?" Tony asked.

Their boss stepped away from his desk and held the file up where his agents could see. It was a normal preliminary case report, but underneath the brief description of the found victim, was a handwritten note composed of Vance's neat script.

 _Flightling_.

A lump rose to Tim's throat. They had never had any flightling victims in the ten years he'd been working there, but now, they had two in just as many weeks. This couldn't be good.

…..

Yeah, this crime scene definitely wasn't good.

The young man had been found in a park, just a few blocks off away from a designated section of military housing, just a few miles outside of Washington. When the crime scene caravan pulled up to their destination, it was taped off and surrounded by several police cars to ensure that no passerby get too close.

As soon as the agents stepped out of the van, one of the officers went over to them.

"You Agent Gibbs?" she asked. When Jethro nodded, she stuck out a hand to shake. "Detective Jennifer Reeds. I was told you guys knew about the state of the victim."

"I'm assuming you know what he was?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah. Only a couple of us on the force know about flightlings, but the chief sends us out when there's an issue with one of them. He was found about an hour ago by a jogger. They didn't touch him, just called us. Which is lucky for everyone."

"Was he found with his wings out?" Tim asked, as he and Tony came over, each holding evidence bags and putting on their latex gloves.

"….Not exactly," Detective Reeds answered, hesitant. "I think you guys better come see."

At this point, Ducky and Palmer came over. Jimmy looked rather haunted, and when the agents turned to their newcomers, they immediately noticed that the assistant ME looked a bit pale.

"You alright, Palmer?" McGee asked as the detective led the group of NCIS employees to their victim.

The bespectacled man looked over at his mentor nervously, and Ducky smiled a bit and explained.

"On the ride over, I finally decided to the time to explain to Mr. Palmer exactly what our victim was."

This caught DiNozzo and Ziva's attention, and they fell back to walk in step with Tim and Jimmy.

"Did he tell you about me?" McGee asked, and this made the autopsy gremlin stop and gape for half a minute, to the amusement of the others.

"You…?" he began, and Tim pointed to his vibrant, unnatural green eyes as an answer, grinning a bit even as he did.

"But it's a secret, Palmer," Tony put in, his tone joking and lighthearted despite the fear in their young colleague's eyes. "If you tell anyone, McGee'll have to kill ya. And he could."

This prompted Jimmy to look over at Tim cautiously, which in turn made the junior agent chuckle. "Relax."

At this point, the group had reached the taped-off area of the park, where their victim laid in the grass, light brown eyes shining a pure, stirring amber shade as they stared up at the sky, seeing nothing. The lighthearted mood immediately dissipated as everyone looked at the body. The boy in front of them looked even younger than his nineteen years, his bronzed skin still pocked in a few places from the last traces of adolescent acne.

"His name is Michael Coleman," Detective Reeds said, handing the victim's wallet over to Gibbs. "His parents have been notified. We got their address on hand and there are a few officers over at their place keeping them company until you're ready to talk to them."

"That is a Jewish name," Ziva said absently, kneeling to examine the boy's face.

"His dad is Lieutenant Commander Uri Coleman. I hate to say it, but we thought it might be mugging gone wrong at first, until we found out he was a flightling. Now we're thinking it's a kind of hate crime."

"What did you mean about we needed to see his wings?" McGee asked as DiNozzo began snapping pictures of the body. There were no wings out, which would have been evident from the start.

Detective Reeds looked grim. "When you're ready to turn him over, you'll see." She looked up at Gibbs. "Let me know if you need anything else. I'm heading back to my precinct."

As she said goodbye and wished the agents luck, they all turned their full attention to their young victim. He had a large splotch of red on his gray t-shirt, and some of that blood had spattered across his sweatpants as well. A thin dribble of blood made a trail from his lips to the ground, and his dark hair was a shaggy, unkempt mess, no doubt due to the boy's youthful age and the treatment he'd received in the past few hours.

Palmer gently lifted the victim's shirt and he and Ducky performed a liver probe.

"Oh dear," the elderly ME murmured as he read the probe. "I would say this young man was killed this morning. Just about…four hours ago." He gently felt along Coleman's jaw and neck. "I can tell that rigor mortis has begun setting in."

"Cause of death, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

Ducky lifted the boy's shirt just a bit higher to reveal a large puncture wound square in the center of the teen's chest. DiNozzo snapped a few more pictures.

"He was certainly stabbed, although I will have to take a closer look to determine what kind of weapon was used," he answered, adjusting the tee back into place. "Now, if you'll help me, Mr. Palmer, I would like to see what Detective Reeds was referring to."

Jimmy put down a tarp and the two prepared to turn their victim on his side. Meanwhile, Ziva went through the boy's wallet. "A gas card and a credit card are here, as well as a student ID for George Washington University."

"So definitely not a mugging," Tony added, taking more pictures of the scene around them.

Tim looked back over to where Ducky and Jimmy were now turning over the young man. He expected to see nothing more than a back of the t-shirt, perhaps a couple of holes cut for wing exposure. But what he saw instead turned his stomach and for a second he was sure he was going to be sick. Everything went a bit blurry for a moment, but he heard muttered curse that came from his boss as everyone else processed the scene in front of them.

The young man's wings were indeed out. Or, at least, they had been. But someone had _removed_ them. Later, after closer examination, Ducky would be able to determine what kind of saw had been used. But all that was left of both wings were short, ugly stubs of feather and bone, only about half a foot each from the young man's back.

It had been a while since McGee felt ill upon examining crime scenes that could be considered "bloodbaths." And this particular scene had very little blood at all. But suddenly, Tim felt himself transported back to Italy. He felt dungeon stone beneath his knees, felt the chains around his wrists, and smelled the blood- his own blood. He felt a ghostly agony, which came from the fleeting memory of the treatment his own wings had sustained. The rest of the team noticed his expression, noticed the horror in his eyes, and they asked him if he was ok. He felt a pair of hands guide him away from the body, realized absently that it was Gibbs who had pulled him aside, and as though from far away, he nodded when asked again if he was alright to continue. He helped to process the rest of the scene, properly dealing with the evidence they'd found, but he barely noticed when the team was finished, and they'd all loaded up the vans and went on their way back to NCIS.

...

 **A/N: bear with me folks, I promise I'm going somewhere with this! in the meantime, let me know what you think ;)**


	10. Chapter 9

Ziva watched McGee out of the corner of her eye as the team made their way back to headquarters. Gibbs was driving and Tony sat in the passenger seat, which left her and Tim to rattle around in the back of the CSI van with the evidence and equipment.

The junior agent was looking at the floor, seeing nothing….at least, nothing that was there in front of him. Normally, the ex-Mossad agent would put a little effort into covertly spying on her friends, but McGee was so lost in thought that she could gaze directly at him without him feeling the stare. Crime scenes were never happy occasions per se, but rarely was the van this quiet.

There were always cases where a member of the team would come a little too close to the situation, would feel it a little too personally. But of all of them, this tended to happen to McGee the least. And yes, he'd been noticeably struck by their open case of the murder of CPO Moore, but that was to be expected. Seamus Moore, as far as they knew at this point, was a victim who _happened_ to be a flightling. He was killed in a rather mundane way, at least in the context of the murders the MCRT usually dealt with.

But this? This new victim was a _child_. Ok, he was nineteen. He was legally an adult. But he wasn't even allowed to legally drink. He was a child.

Ziva was trying hard to put her own feelings aside; never mind that she saw her sister, a younger version of her brother, a more innocent version of herself, in every young person they encountered at work. The fact that this child was Jewish was also a little too close for her comfort. But the fact that he was a flightling? A barely-adult flightling who had been attacked and brutalized, two limbs cut off, his body dumped out in public with no concern for whether someone might discover the bones that had once connected his wings to his back….

McGee wore long sleeves every day -he always had- but now every once in a while Ziva was reminded that beneath those sleeves were a few crisscrossed scars from wounds that had been inflicted on him while he was being tortured. He'd almost had his own wings torn from his back. This case was bound to be a little too personal no matter what.

Ziva was the only one from their team who had been legitimately tortured before the events of the past year. Now there were two of them. And while it had taken a long time for her to recover from her heinous experiences, she had done her best to immediately hide her pain, to hide the scars that littered her body and her mind. That's why she could see when McGee did the same.

He couldn't hide the fact that he didn't sleep well, as much as he tried. But the ex-Mossad agent knew that to his credit, Tim dealt with his struggles well and that he wasn't constantly haunted by the things that had happened to him. Or at least, he didn't _seem_ to be.

She just hoped that this case wouldn't change that.

Tim, for his point, was just trying to quell the nausea that had followed him away from the crime scene. He knew he was going to have to pull it together if he was going to be allowed to continue helping with this investigation; the only thing that would be worse than dealing with this case would be not being involved in it at all.

It wasn't just the fact that their vic was a flightling. It wasn't even that he was particularly young. They'd had young victims, whether of murder or some other crime, and while it always hurt, right now it wasn't the age of the boy that had shaken him so.

McGee knew almost nothing about Michael Coleman at the moment. Just that his dad was a naval commander, that Michael was nineteen, and he was a flightling. And part of him wondered: how long had the boy been a flightling? His whole life? Or was this a recent change. How did he deal with these powers, with this secret, with this alternate life?

Tim wondered how he himself would have been different if he'd been a flightling from youth. It obviously would have been a secret to everyone except those closest to him. And besides his interesting eyes, his physical appearance would have been the same to his peers; they'd be blissfully unaware of his wings, his powers. Would he still have been bullied? Would bigger boys still have knocked him around and pushed him out of their way in the halls of school? Just one push back with his inhuman strength and they might have decided he wasn't someone to mess with. Would just the knowledge of his secret powers have made him more confident, less jumpy and scrawny and eager to please as a kid? Would he have been so self-conscious, even into young adulthood? Would he have still joined NCIS or would his powers, even while secret, have made him fit better somewhere else? Would it have taken him so long to become a strong, self-assured agent? Or on the other hand, would being a flightling have made growing up harder? Would he have been raised to be constantly aware of keeping his secret? Would he have lived in paranoia, would he have been afraid of himself for his whole life? No sleepovers or extended playdates with his friends, in case his wings popped out of his back while he was still learning to control them? Having to ask permission to go flying? No boy scouts or tee ball because his strength, even as a child, would have been too conspicuous? Would his odd eyes and complete inability to defend himself (less he give away his secret) have made him an even worse target for bullies? Would his parents have seen him differently? Would he have earned his father's approval or even worse disdain?

McGee really wanted to know all about Michael Coleman's life. How happy or difficult or full of love and success or sadness had the boy been? And what had he done to warrant such an end? Was he far less innocent than he looked? Did he kill humans for sport and was thus disposed of by a hunter? This thought always repulsed Tim on many levels, but on this occasion he suddenly wondered whether he himself would have killed humans, had he grown up being so acutely aware of his abilities. How would his parents have steered his moral code then- and would they have been _able_ to? Instead of being left alone by bullies or enduring even worse treatment, would his boorish peers have met bloody, soul-stealing ends shortly after high school graduation?

These scenarios all played around in his head, each coming in and out of focus and keeping the junior agent preoccupied. This was so much the case that McGee didn't even notice that the van had reached NCIS until Ziva had gently put her hand on his shoulder and shook him. Even then, he made his way to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, and it wasn't until he made it back to the bullpen to meet his team that he was truly back on earth.

This was the moment that he noticed that Gibbs and Ziva were already gone.

"They went to interview the Colemans," Tony informed his friend when asked. "I'm on my way to talk to the kid's roommate...You with me, McGee?"

"Yeah, sorry," Tim shook his head a little to finish burrowing his way out of the reverie he'd created for himself.

"Gibbs said you should go help Abby process evidence," DiNozzo said, not mentioning that their boss had made this delegation hoping it would give McGee something to dive into and focus on instead of the unpleasantness his own mind was churning up.

…..

Abby, unsurprisingly, was more optimistic.

"I know we have no reason to think just yet that your two cases are connected, but if they are, that's almost a good thing! I mean, we have nothing to go on with the first murder, and two crime scenes means there's twice as much evidence now. Okay, well, I mean statistically, there are probably different "amounts" of evidence from each for us to process, but the point is, the upside to this addition is that we might have way more to go on and way more for you guys to look into…." she rambled, and this actually did help Tim's state of mind. The forensic tech was just very good at being in the present and looking on the bright side of things.

They started with the evidence that had been picked up by the agents directly from the scene at the park. A phone with earphones attached had been playing music, and Jimmy shortly came by with Michael Coleman's clothes and some blood and hair samples for evidence comparison. McGee handed Palmer their victim's cell phone and the assistant M.E. returned a few minutes later, having used the boy's finger to unlock his phone, post-mortem.

"Looks like he was out jogging when he was attacked," McGee noted while Abby started on the tennis shoes and pants. They had some blood spattered on them, but there was almost no spatter past a very defined area of the young man's shirt. It was all very inconsistent. Which of course made it all the more interesting.

"Look," Abby pointed to her screen after a few minutes, and Tim leaned in to get a closer look. "The blood on his shoes and pants doesn't match the blood on his shirt."

"Which one is his blood, though?"

"The blood on the shirt is Michael's. Which makes sense, because of the stab wound underneath it. But this blood on his shoes and on his pants doesn't belong to him. It's a totally different type."

"Someone else's blood," McGee murmured. "So was he the one fighting back, or was the other person?"

"Well you said his wings were cut off, right? That doesn't seem like something you do when you kill someone out of self defense."

"Good point. Also," the agent went over to the evidence table and picked up the shirt. "This shirt isn't cut. It was torn when Coleman opened his wings. He probably didn't intend to use his wings while he was wearing his shirt. And he wouldn't have to have his wings out to attack someone but it seems like if he was intending on killing a person, he would have been a hundred percent prepared to get away, which might involve using his wings."

Abby picked up the smart phone, which had been playing music from a playlist specifically titled "Running." She then turned over the pair of tennis shoes. "See where they're worn out on the soles? The soles of running shoes wear out way after the rest of the treads do. This kid was probably running a lot in his spare time."

"And the blood in the grass in the park indicates that whatever fight took place happened right there. There wasn't any killing somewhere else and dumping the body in the park. And Ducky said he was probably killed early in the morning, which may actually have been attacked late at night."

"So he's probably out for his run," Abby began. "And he's most likely the one to be attacked first. Ducky can fill in the details of what happened after that, but ultimately, he was left there and no one noticed him until another jogger went by in the morning and saw him."

"That's pretty different from what we came up with for the last murder," McGee put in, a bit disappointed Things would be so much easier if their cases were connected.

"Well, it might be totally different, but that doesn't mean it wasn't the same person," the forensic tech said. "But then again, it might not be. Don't worry, Timmy. We're gonna catch whoever did this, to Michael Coleman and to Seamus Moore."

McGee nodded, and the two went back to processing evidence, a fresh sense of determination inspired in both of them.

…..

Tony stepped over a particularly large pile of clothes, a backup team CSI team on his heels as he toured through the small apartment that Michael Coleman had shared with his roommate, Patrick.

"So, is your team going to go through _everything_?" the roommate in question asked nervously as he too followed the senior agent into Michael's bedroom.

"Don't worry, Pat," Tony said as he scanned the victim's personal space. "The porn folder on your computer is safe. If you're helpful I might even overlook all the cheap pot paraphernalia in that shoebox under your bed."

The young man looked alarmed. "How did you know—"

"I didn't until just now," DiNozzo replied, and even though he had his casual-yet-serious persona on, which he employed every time he spoke to younger persons of interest, he had to really work to keep from breaking at the kid's dumbfounded expression.

"I-I'll help you with whatever you want."

"Great," Tony turned from surveying the room. "Give me the grand tour while my guys take a look around."

The teen showed the agent the little flat. The shared bathroom was cleaned through quickly and didn't have anything interesting to share with the investigators, save a few fingerprints that could be used to identify both Michael and Patrick. The kitchen also didn't turn up much.

"Which one of you is the protein shake freak?" DiNozzo asked.

"Mike. He's training for a half marathon. Or, was," Patrick said, saddened.

"So he'd go out for a run every day?"

"Yeah, I can show you where," a smartphone was produced and the maps application pulled up. "So he'd start at our building, go north up this street, hit the park, run around the park as many times as he needed to for him to hit the distance he wanted, then leave through the back exit of the park, by the pond, see? And he'd run south down this street here, turn right, and end up back here."

The senior agent examined the path lined out for him. Coleman had been found directly off his normal route, just before the end of what looked like the fourth mile. "You ever go with him?"

"Nah, dude. I mean, not to run. A couple times he asked me to ride my bike behind him and pace out the single-mile sprints he wanted to make. But we hadn't done that in a while."

"So he never mentioned anything weird on his runs?"

"Anything weird?"

"Weird people. Crazy homeless guys yelling at squirrels, cute girls he'd stop to talk to, anyone following him?"

"No. I don't even think he'd notice any of that. He got really into the zone."

DiNozzo watched some more techs go over every inch of the apartment's living room- or this tiny space's equivalent to a living room, anyway. The sectional couch was falling apart and the chairs were busted up, as furniture was wont to be in the apartment of two college-aged men.

"So the cops told me he was stabbed," Patrick asked, suddenly more sad and serious than he'd been while giving Tony a tour of the apartment.

"Yeah," DiNozzo said quietly. He felt for the kid. Pat had introduced himself as Michael's best friend. They'd known each other since high school. Just over a year ago, Tony had thought he'd seen his own best friend murdered. He knew the pain.

"Do you know…" the young man trailed off, and decided not to finish his question. Choosing to ignore it for the moment, he pressed on with more queries of his own.

"You have any idea who might of done this? Anyone who didn't like Michael, anyone who bothered him?"

"No, everyone loved him. All our friends, his family- aw man, did someone tell his parents? They're gonna be crushed."

"A couple of my coworkers are with them now," DiNozzo responded. "Was he close with his parents?"

"Yeah. He never went through the phase where he hated his folks or anything. I mean, they are pretty cool. They're just super supportive and nice, is all."

"What about a job?"

"He was going to get a summer job, but he wasn't gonna start looking until the semester was actually over. It just ended a couple weeks ago."

"So no job. And no classes right now. What'd he do in his spare time?"

"Uh, hanging out with friends, video games…we'd all play basketball like once a week…normal stuff?"

"Specific, thank you," Tony deadpanned. He watched a few techs take Michael's laptop and a few other personal belongings out in evidence bags before continuing. "Any girlfriend?"

The younger man snorted. "One every other week. He didn't really "date." Like, he wasn't a bad guy, in fact I'd say he treated girls better than most guys, but it was always casual."

"So no long-term thing?"

"No."

"Alright…" DiNozzo nodded, satisfied, and turned to see the techs wrapping up their work. The last of the investigators gave the agent a nod of parting before shutting the door behind him, leaving Tony alone with the young student.

"So how long did you say you knew Michael?" he asked, more casual and conversational. This made Patrick relax a bit.

"Since high school."

"You guys were close?"

"He's my best friend," the kid grimaced when he noticed that he'd used the incorrect tense.

"I really am sorry for your loss. But I have a few more questions."

After a shared beat of quiet, Pat nodded. Tony turned and went back to Michael's room, and the deceased boy's friend followed.

"So," DiNozzo began again, pacing around the room and looking around. He had a pretty clever way to figure out the one question he couldn't outright ask, but it would only wok out of sheer luck. He'd been to McGee's home often, and because that was the one place that Tim regularly had his wings out, feathers would occasionally fall out unnoticed and be found later, much like a normal person may find strands of hair and complain of "shedding."

The team of CSI techs had checked under the bed and on top of the bed, but there was a small space between the bed and the wall. And if Michael Coleman was anything like Tim or Victoria, then sleeping sometimes, if not always, included his wings being open. Which made for a greater opportunity of "molting."

Success. Caught between the bedsheets and the wall lay a couple of very large feathers. Tony picked one up and pretended to be fascinated, as if he'd never seen such a feather. It was indeed a very pretty color- it was tawny and brown, with flecks of white here and there. He could imagine the big, multi-shaded wings that they had once belonged to, which would have made for a perfect match with the late boy's bronzed skin tone.

"Wow, this is pretty cool. Any idea what this is from?"

Patrick, for his part, had gone a bit pale and his nervousness returned.

"I…uh…"

"This is obviously a bird's feather, but what bird?" the agent hedged.

"Mike collected birds feathers," the teen attempted to explain.

"Huh. Well, all I see is this one. And unless your friend was plucking feathers off of condors, I don't know of a whole lot of birds that could make feathers this big."

"I…I think Mike actually did mention that this was a condor feather," the boy lied, and while it was obviously a falsehood, DiNozzo was a bit impressed that this kid had the guts to try, and the presence of mind to be that quick on his feet. But Tony was a pro. He brandished his pair of handcuffs.

"Well then, Mike probably would have mentioned that the condor is a critically endangered species and owning the feathers of any protected bird is a crime. Which makes you an accessory."

"Wait!" the kid's expression was once again so shocked that the agent almost broke his facade. Like he was going to arrest this teenager over random bird feathers that were definitely _not_ from a condor. "I don't know for sure that they're condor feathers?"

"Are you a bird expect, Pat?"

"No…"

"Then unless you can tell me exactly what this is from, I have every reason to think it's from a condor."

"No, wait! It's Mike's!"

Tony was waiting for such a confession, but wasn't so far in that he could afford to drop the act just yet. "You already told me it belonged to Mike. And if he was a so-called feather collector, why's he stuffing parts of his collection down behind his bed?"

"They probably fell there!"

"So you have seen these before?"

"Yeah! They got left all over the apartment."

"What do you mean?"

"I…uh…I can't tell you, alright?"

"You know this means I can arrest you for obstruction of justice, right?"

"I don't care. I can't tell you."

Suddenly, Tony was infinitely more impressed with the younger man's loyalty to his friend. He eased up.

"I know about it, Pat."

After a pause, the kid spoke again. "You know?"

"Mike was found with his wings out," DiNozzo said, deciding to spare him the horror of knowing that the wings had been cut.

"Oh…" his shoulders slumped in relief that he could talk about it. "Did you know about it before?"

"Yeah. My best friend happens to be a flightling….A couple of my friends are, actually."

"I was gonna say, you are _way_ too chill with this for a guy who just found out about it this morning."

"Sorry to freak you out there, but I had to find out if you knew without asking you outright."

"It's cool, I get it."

"So are you a flightling too?"

"No, he told me our sophomore year of high school."

"Who else knew?"

"Literally no one except his parents and me. That's why he didn't actually date. He always got nervous about having to eventually tell a serious girlfriend about it."

"His parents flightlings?"

"I…actually? I don't know. I never asked them. Probably, though. They never told me much about it in general, Mike just told me about his own experiences."

"Did he ever attack humans?"

"Hell no."

"Did he ever tell you about hunters?"

"Yeah, but he was really good about keeping his secret. Like I said, almost no one knew. Hunters never bothered him and he didn't worry about it."

Tony nodded. It made the situation even more sad to know that Michael never worried about being hunted. He never had to. Or at least, he _shouldn't_ have had to. Because he wasn't a danger to anyone.

…

The doors to autopsy swished open and Gibbs strode over to where Ducky was working. He and Ziva had spent a long while talking to the parents of their victim, and while of course you'd never know to look at him, but it had been as heart wrenching for the lead agent as it could have been. He was hoping that his old friend would have evidence to help bring in leads, which was always a good way to brighten his day. "What've you got, Duck?"

"Ah, Jethro," the doctor greeted. "Good timing, as usual. We were just about to finish up."

Palmer went to the corner to take off his gloves and smock, and Gibbs took his place next to Ducky.

"Cause of death definitely the stabbing?"

"Oh yes, certainly. But this young man did not go down without a fight."

"How can you tell?"

Ducky lifted their victim's hand. "You see the blood around his fingernails? They are cut short, which is normal, but the blood caught around the edges was sent to Abigail's lab for testing, and it did not match that of young Mr. Coleman here."

"He tried to scratch at the attacker?"

"Not very successfully, it seems. If he'd had longer nails it might have been a more effective tactic. But with his strength, it was indeed enough to draw a little blood. Actually, more than a little. More blood that did not belong to him was on his pants and shoes, meaning he struggled for a bit and put up a decent fight."

The M.E. pulled the sheet back a bit to reveal the boy's upper arms and chest. "As you can see, there are a few scratches on his neck and arm here, which suggests that the killer tried to stab him several times, but his hand was forced away and he missed, catching the boy's shoulder and arm instead."

"But eventually he hit his mark," Jethro added.

"Yes. But the angle of the puncture wound is interesting."

"How so?"

The older man pointed close to the wound. "You see how it is oddly sized? And this skin almost looks like a pocket? The killer stabbed him at an angle, which we could also tell from the angle that his internal organs were punctured at. This tearing around the skin here also suggests that the blade used was serrated."

"So there's a struggle, the killer is able to get behind him somehow, and then reach around to stab him in the chest."

"Right. The only thing that doesn't make sense to me is the fact that this would have been impossible to do if the boy's wings were out, which I assume they absolutely had to be. They were out when he died, and they were removed post-mortem. And with the same serrated blade that was used to stab him."

Gibbs looked at the body on the table, lost in thought, before something occurred to him. He looked up. "Palmer. Come over here."

Jimmy wasn't nearly as frightened as he'd once been of the senior agent, but he wasn't about to ask any questions when Gibbs gave a command.

As the assistant ME walked over, Jethro positioned him to face the wall, and he stood next to the younger man, facing the other way.

"So Coleman and his attacker are probably passing each other. Coleman's jogging, the attacker is too."

Gibbs then slowly and carefully took Palmer by the shoulders and spun him into a hold, where he was faced away from Gibbs, but Gibbs pretended to hold him close with one arm, an invisible knife held up in the other against Jimmy's throat. Palmer let this happen but his nervousness was not at all concealed.

"The killer gets him in a grip for a second and tries to stab him but instead catches him in the arm and shoulder."

"If this person is human and not a flightling himself, he must be a particularly strong fellow to be able to stop this young man in the momentum of his running and take him on in close combat," Ducky noted.

"He probably caught him by surprise too," Palmer said, though it came out almost like a croak.

"Right. And then Coleman fights back, using his strength to puncture this guy's arm with his fingers. Which is why the blood fell on his pants and shoes."

"That does make sense," the elderly ME agreed.

"Would this stab immediately kill him?"

"Not quite. It would only take a few moments since he cut critical arteries, but it wouldn't be instantaneous."

"So he stabs him, they separate, and in a last ditch effort, Coleman's wings come out in self defense, but he's not able to fight, and he falls."

"At which point the killer would have time to gather himself and catch his breath, and then he removes Mr. Coleman's wings. Which would have taken a bit of time with just a hand blade, no matter how serrated it was. And then he makes off with the weapon and wings, and leaves the body to be found."

Gibbs released Palmer, who sighed in relief. "I think I'm going to go get some coffee. I'll be back," the assistant excused himself.

Ducky watched him go, a small smile on his face. "He's had a bit of a day."

"We all have," Jethro smirked, then he took a long breath and nodded, gathering his thoughts. "Thanks, Duck," he finished and headed for the elevator.

….

When Gibbs got back to the bullpen, he called his agents to attention with one of his most common phrases.

"What've you got?"

"Michael Coleman's parents are both flightlings. Only one of them, his father, serves. Lieutenant Commander Coleman did not know of any other flightlings in the military. He'd heard of CPO Moore's death but did not know he himself was a flightling," Ziva stated for the benefit of Tony and McGee, since Gibbs had been with her to collect this information.

"Did they say how long he'd been a flightling?" Tim asked. As much as he wanted to, he didn't ask anything else about the Coleman family. He just wanted to know what kind of family they were. What kind of flightlings they were.

"Michael has been a flightling almost since birth. Which makes sense, since his parents would of course have to hold him and it is initiated through touch. His parents say they do not hunt and neither did their son."

"Makes sense. I saw some feathers around the kid's room. They weren't gray or black," Tony added. "Roommate knew and said that only he and the Colemans knew the secret."

McGee then added the forensic evidence he'd found with Abby, and it matched up perfectly with Gibbs' information gleaned from the young man's autopsy.

"So we have an idea of the weapon, and we evidence of how the scenario played out, but no suspects or motive," Ziva noted.

"Well the roommate said the kid went on late-night, or early-morning runs almost every day. And it was almost always the same route. Whoever killed him must've had a plan in order to catch Coleman by surprise, which means he knew the kid's schedule and followed him to the park," Tony supplied.

Gibbs turned to his junior agent. "McGee, we got security tapes from the apartment building?"

"Yeah, while you guys were out I called the landlord and he said he'd email me last night's footage. It should be here by now…" Tim sat at his desk and after a minute, the blurry footage was on the flatscreen for everyone to see.

The camera only showed the front of the building, but it was enough for the agents to see a blurry figure that was definitely Michael Coleman leave through the front door, take a minute to finish stretching and then putting in his earbuds and taking off on his usual route. The video kept playing, and at first it seemed like nothing else would happen. But then a few moments later a large, windowless van that had been parked on the street came to life, its lights flicking on in the darkness. It slowly pulled away, heading in the same direction their victim had.

"Well that's never good," Tony muttered, taking out his cellphone. He looked through his notes from the day and found the number he was looking for, at which point he called the building's landlord.

The rest of the team continued to watch the security footage. Tim even rewound the video to see if anyone could catch a glimpse at the van's license plates. But no matter how much he tried to zoom and enhance the picture, the cheap little CCTV camera was not high-definition enough to make out a single number or letter.

DiNozzo finished his call and stood back up. "Landlord says that there's only one tenant in the building he knows of that drives a van, and he works at a privately owned butchery that serves a lot of restaurants in the area."

"That's a good place to get a knife," McGee noted.

"And get this- they guy lives in the apartment across from Coleman's. He's at work now."

The agents all went to their desks to grab their guns and badges and headed to the elevator.

In less than an hour, they were at the butchery in question. It was set up like a large scale plant would be, despite the building being relatively small: the offices were in front, and an attached back of the building that was far more industrial in appearance suggested that this was where the more grisly work was done. Of to the side of the parking lot was a fenced in area, where about a dozen large, windowless delivery vans were corralled. They all had a neat, trendy script emblazoned on the sides with the name of the business, but such details had been indistinguishable from the blurry security camera footage, so there was no way of proving whether one of those vans was the one that had followed Michael Coleman the night before.

The team went in through the front office and asked the receptionist at the front desk about their suspect. She then pointed them down the hall towards the back of the building, and after turning some corners and going through some doors, the NCIS agents entered a second department that had its own secretary in front, posted at her desk.

She was a bit less accommodating.

"He's busy in the back, doing inspections. If you need to speak with him, you can make an appointment-"

"It will take just a second. I'm sure he can spare that long for a murder investigation," Tony said, rattling the woman.

"Oh…well-" she sputtered.

"In the back, you said?" DiNozzo asked as Gibbs passed her desk and started down the large, brightly-lit hall, Ziva and McGee close behind.

"Wait!" she stopped them. She realized that the four agents were not going to listen to her, and that making trouble for them would most likely look bad on her and her bosses. "He's in the refrigerated room. If you're going in, you at least," she eyed Ziva, "have to wear a hairnet."

She got some out of a box in her desk and handed them to the Israeli agent, who stretched the mesh over her head and made sure that all of her ponytail was inside. Tony, and even Tim, had to work not to snicker at the sight before putting theirs on. When everyone was ready, the woman stepped in front of Gibbs and led them down the hall.

"He'll be just through here," the secretary said, waving them through into the large, warehouse-style room where meat was rinsed, cut, rinsed again, and then stored. Several employees moved down the aisles, inspecting their products and doing any necessary work.

Row upon row of enormous slabs of meat were hung, suspended above the ground, awaiting their final destination. As soon as the refrigerated air hit him, Tony was ready to make a reference to _Rocky_ or any of its sequels. It would be worth the inevitable glare from his boss. However, the joke died on his lips the moment he turned and saw McGee's face.

Tim's eyes were not quite dinner plates, but they were just a _bit_ too wide to look normal. His face had gone a deathly shade of white and his jaw was clenched. Anyone who didn't know him might have guessed that he simply had an issue with the smell of raw meat. But DiNozzo could see his friend's nostrils flaring, saw Tim's effort to control his reaction at being in a room filled with chains and hooks and knives and blood.

"McGee," he mumbled, hoping that calling the younger man's attention to him, and away from the sight in front of them, would bring him back to reality. But Tim's jaw just seemed to clench even harder before he turned to his friend. Fear and pain were poorly concealed in his eyes and for half a second, DiNozzo wondered if McGee knew where he was. Gibbs and Ziva turned the moment they'd heard Tony speak, hearing something in his tone that claimed their attention. When they saw Tim's expression, both immediately caught up to what was happening. Ziva acted fast, putting a hand on McGee's forearm and discreetly leading him out of the room. It was only once a nearby door to the alley outside had shut behind the two younger agents that Tony and Gibbs relaxed and shared a look. They each knew what the other was thinking- they were both trying to beat back the memories of that night that Tim had been tortured so severely, had come so close to death….Their own memories of the night were nauseating enough that Tony looked back at the large hanging cuts of meat with a new disgust. Nevertheless, they had a job to do. The sooner they did it, the sooner they could get out of there. No one else in the room had even noticed the incident, it had happened so fast, so without a word they went to find their suspect.

It wasn't until the door was shut behind him and he felt the warm air that McGee allowed himself to breathe again. He gasped for a moment, ripping off his hairnet, his breaths coming out ragged and fast. Ziva took her own hairnet off and watched him double over slightly to catch his breath, doing nothing but glancing around to make sure they had the privacy in this alley that Tim needed. When he straightened up, he avoided her gaze and the two stood there in silence for a few uncomfortable minutes.

"Are you alright, McGee?" Ziva finally asked, and he knew she wasn't just talking about his respiratory issues.

"I am now," he said, pretending that she was indeed only talking about his breathing. "Thanks, Ziva. I wasn't…I didn't think it would…"

He let his words hang in the air, not completing the thought.

"How could you know? I'm assuming you don't frequent places like this." When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "Have you talked to anyone, McGee?"

She expected him to completely stonewall her, but he did answer. Sort of.

"I did the psych eval when I got my job back. They said I was fine."

She was going to point out that he couldn't have possibly spoken about all that had actually happened with the staff psychologist, but decided against it. "Maybe you are fine. But you have been looking tired and stressed recently. Have you been having nightmares?"

"That was all months ago," he said, and she noticed how he referred to events she hadn't even mentioned. She also noticed that he didn't answer her question.

"It can take several months after a trauma for mental effects to set in."

"I'm fine, Z."

Ziva opened her mouth, ready to argue on this issue of his well-being, but something in Tim's expression told her to drop it. He just looked…tired. Exhausted, really. And completely unable to have this conversation at that moment. She wrestled with herself over what to do for a few more minutes, but it wasn't long before the door to the alley opened and Gibbs and Tony appeared.

"Anything?" McGee asked, surprised at how quickly this interview had gone.

"No, he's got an alibi. He was at his girlfriend's house across town and took an Uber to work this morning. His app proved it. Security cameras and records also showed that all the vans stay in the lot until it's time to deliver during the day. So it wasn't the van we saw," DiNozzo answered. Gibbs didn't even acknowledge the question, instead going right up to McGee and staring him down. Years ago, Tim would have thought this was an intimidation tactic, a reprimanding stare. It was still a little unsettling, but he knew better now. The boss was looking him over, examining his face for any further distress. A quirk of the older man's eyebrows and a small nod was question enough, and his agent answered with a nod of his own. It was clear that Gibbs didn't believe his agent'sunspoken response, but didn't push it, instead turning to find the car.

McGee gulped, knowing that his boss was going to be keeping a closer eye on him for the time being. He followed behind Gibbs without a word. Behind Tim, Tony and Ziva shared a look.


	11. Chapter 10

**Hey y'all! Here's a short little bonus chapter for the week. Thanks for reading & reviewing!**

….

Victoria was very much over the whole arduous process of setting up her new home. She'd bought a gorgeous little flat, just a bit smaller than Tim's apartment, but in an older building situated in a historic area.

She wasn't inclined to go crazy with interior decorating, but her personal style was evident in every corner, with massive potted plants, a Turkish rug, slightly-worn but insanely-comfortable furniture, tasteful art, and a wall of shelves, which she was currently filling with books that had been packed away in boxes. The lighting was dim and cozy, and everything was still and peaceful and Victoria was truly content. Her new living situation was temporary, and she still had some unpacking to do, but she hadn't felt this at-home in a while.

This little feeling was sealed up, like she was in a snow globe. It was kind of enchanted, this moment. She liked being alone, she liked being cozy, and she liked keeping busy. This little world? It was hers. And that's what made it special.

A couple of hard knocks to her front door broke up this little magic, effectively startling her.

This was almost disconcerting. It was close to 8 PM, and a glance at her phone confirmed that no one had called or texted to ask if they could come over.

It could very reasonably be Tim, but he'd always texted to ask if it was alright to meet her _anywhere_ , no matter how many times she told him he didn't need permission, just a few minutes' warning so she was sure to be home. So yeah, probably not Tim.

The few friends the young woman did have in the area hadn't been to her new place just yet; in fact, Tim was the only one who knew her address so far. And she definitely didn't order a pizza.

Nevertheless, she wasn't exactly a person who had to worry about many threats. Putting the little stack of books down on her coffee table, she went to the door and pulled it open to see Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David in the entryway.

Victoria blinked at them for a second, glancing around but not seeing Tim anywhere.

This was odd.

"Hey," she greeted slowly. It wasn't that she was unhappy to see them- in fact, she found she rather enjoyed the company of the NCIS agents. But this situation brought a lot of questions along with it.

"Hey," Tony replied. He looked almost sheepish, and while she hadn't known him very long, it was obvious that this was an expression altogether unnatural to his face.

"Do you mind if we come in? We don't have to stay long if you're busy," Ziva asked.

"Oh, no, not at all, come in," she said, stepping back and allowing them to enter. "Make yourselves at home."

The agents went past and stopped to admire her place. "This is nice," DiNozzo said.

"It suits you," Ziva agreed.

"Thank you. Uhm, actually, how did you know my address? Not that I mind," she added quickly, "it's just, I never would have expected you to come here... without Tim, anyway."

"Yes, we're sorry about that. But McGee is actually the reason we came here."

"And we got your address out of his phone. He doesn't know," Tony put in.

"Please, don't apologize. Is something wrong? How can I help?" she asked as they all sat in the den area.

The two visitors shared a glance for what had to be the hundredth time that day. Then, they launched into the story. Victoria had been in casual touch with the junior agent for the past couple of days, but they had both been busy and never went too far into detail over text. So it was a surprise when Tony and Ziva told her about their most recent case, about the murder of Michael Coleman and the fact that he was found without his wings. She went a bit green when they described how his wings had been sawn off and were now missing, how their only true lead at the moment was some blurry footage of a van slowly driving after Coleman as he started his late-night run. She listened as they went on about Tim's rough day, how he looked like he would be sick at the crime scene and almost completely lost it while in a meat locker.

"Well," she breathed when they were done. "I knew he wasn't doing all that great these past couple of weeks, but I chalked it up to the stress of everything: making a decision about his family, seeing his grandmother again, two flightling murder cases, but this…." she sighed and started again. "It was stupid of me to write it off so quickly."

"Did he say anything to you about it?"

"Not really, no," she answered. "I bugged him about it for a little while and he admitted that he was having nightmares. He didn't say what kind, though. And when I tried to ask more questions he just promised me it wouldn't be a problem once all of these stressful cases and situations had wrapped up. I didn't believe him, of course, but I didn't push it. I should have."

"Honestly, you just got into town. We see him pretty much every day and it didn't occur to us that this was the real problem," Tony said.

"I suspected it might become an issue, but things didn't get serious until this week," Ziva said.

"Is it really that bad?" Victoria asked, her voice soft.

"I don't know if I would say things are serious now, but I think they **could** get bad if he ignores it."

"So the point is," DiNozzo picked up where his partner left off. "We know you're always keeping an eye on him, but we're hoping you might get more out of him."

"If he won't talk to us about what is bothering him, I hope he'll tell you, because you at least have had the same experiences he has had this past year."

Their flightling hostess nodded solemnly. "I'll talk to him some more. Thank you for including me in this."

"Well, we kind of had to," Tony said, though it was more joking than anything. "You're probably his favorite person."

"Besides you all," Victoria amended with a smile. She looked away for a moment, fixing her gaze on the large indoor palm behind his head, before letting out a rush of breath and standing. "Would you like some tea? I could use some tea."

"I'd actually love some," Ziva said, getting up and following her to the kitchen.

"I'm good," Tony said.

"You sure? I have coffee too."

"...In that case, yeah. Thanks."

She put a little package into her instant-coffee machine and let it go before heading to her sink. She was lucky enough to have a hot water-spout, filtered specifically for drinking, and filled two mugs, dropping a teabag in each. She handed the tea to one agent and then retrieved the waiting coffee and passed it to the other. Ziva sat at a stool behind the counter and DiNozzo stood nearby. Victoria hopped up to sit on to the opposite counter.

"So a few days ago, when you all asked me to do some digging regarding Seamus Moore…" she began with a slightly different conversation topic. "I don't have a whole lot of acquaintances out here just yet, much less many flightling friends, but I do have a couple, and I asked them to help me look around. One friend of mine is a doctor, who works at a normal hospital but also sees flightlings — it's just now occurring to me that he might know any psychology professionals who could help Tim — but anyway, he told me that people keep their identities a close secret around here. Not a whole lot of tight-knit communities. There might be one or two secret clubs or lounges around D.C. that cater to flightlings, but those in the military and government are very hush-hush about it."

"No surprise there. There aren't a whole lot of hunters that stick around in the area either," Tony said, and Victoria nodded.

"Right. I suspect that those flightlings who do live around here don't make it a huge part of their lives the way they sometimes do in older places, like Valero Notte. Less flightlings in the area, less chances for them to connect and congregate. At least, that's what I've been told so far. My friend is going to keep looking, and I am too. But the point is, no one around seemed to hear about your Chief Petty Officer. But a kid being killed and left out in the park with his wings cut? Even if only the metro police know about it, those detectives are bound to know some flightlings and word will get around. Slowly, because like I said, the grapevine here is pretty low on fruit, but still. At the least, I can find out if this has been happening a lot recently."

"Once again, we owe you big time," DiNozzo shook his head.

"Friends don't owe friends for these kinds of favors," she replied.

"Do you think you could find out if there are any clubs or lounges where flightlings might gather?" Ziva asked, but before Victoria could look worried, she explained herself. "That way if we need information for our case, we can have McGee go in for us."

"Oh, of course. And if you're worried about him doing anything risky given his recent jumpiness, I can always do something like that. Especially if you think it's too dangerous for humans to enter alone."

The three friends continued to turn over various possibilities and notes about the cases at hand. Once the tea and coffee were drained, the agents stood to leave and Victoria bade them goodbye, shutting the door behind them and walking back to her living room to continue shelving books.

"You know-" DiNozzo suddenly began behind her, which caused her to jump and drop everything in her arms.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Tony!"

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, not moving from the doorway to her living room until she had settled. Victoria hadn't heard him re-enter; apparently, only Ziva had gone. "Don't you have superhuman hearing?" he suddenly asked, his lips quirking up in amusement.

"Shut up," she muttered, bending to pick up the scattered novels. "I was lost in thought. Some apex predator I am."

He chuckled and came forward to help her pick up the rest of the books.

"You were saying?" she asked as she organized her paperbacks on their designated shelf.

"Right. I was going to say, you never mentioned whether _you_ were having nightmares."

For a second she paused, but then went back to her work. "Well, you didn't ask. Am I supposed to run the content of my dreams by every late-night visitor?"

This time it was his turn to pause. "Do you have a lot of late-night visitors?" But he quickly realized the tactlessness of this question and backtracked. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. But you didn't answer my first question, either."

She put up her last book and turned back towards the kitchen. He followed a few steps behind.

"I'm fine," she said, picking up each used mug and heading to the sink, rinsing them out and putting them in her dishwasher.

"That's not an answer."

"Well, I think you and Ziva should just take care of Tim first and foremost."

"Do you remember the last time you said something like that? You almost died because you told Apollo not to worry about you, to take care of McGee first."

"Almost, but I didn't," Victoria replied, although she knew how childish it sounded. "And Tim was far more gravely injured than I was at that moment, anyway. If Apollo hadn't seen to him first, he _would_ have died."

"You still haven't answered the question."

"Is this an interrogation?" she asked, shutting of her faucet and turning to face him directly. He ignored how close she was (which was difficult for some reason.) He could see that she was getting a bit heated and defensive, and slowed the pace of their conversation down.

"Do you want me to get Ziva back here? She's even better at interrogating than I am," he said, and it worked. Victoria relaxed her shoulders a bit, stepping away to reach for a hand towel.

"Can I ask why you're asking?"

"Because I want to know."

"Why?"

There was a bit of a stillness, and Tony huffed. "The very first time we talked, I asked why you were helping us, remember that? You said it was because McGee cared about us, and you cared about him. Well he cares about you too, so that goes both ways."

Victoria looked him up and down, trying to decide if this was the truth. Finally, she sighed.

"Yes, alright? Yes. Occasionally, I do have nightmares because of what happened. And they're always awful. But it's not every night, and you know what? I'm _fine_. I'm not like you all, I don't find myself exposed to fresh, terrible crimes every week. There's nothing to antagonize it."

To be honest, he hadn't really planned out what he was going to say at this point, and there was an awkward pause. Victoria mistook this to be either judgement or smugness at getting her to admit what she had. This in turn made jaw clenched and her cheeks go a bit pink.

"Look," she said quietly, her eyes now on the floor between them. "Like I said, Tim is who you should be worrying about right now. And we agreed that it might not even be a real problem for him, so why would it be for me? I said that I would look around to get him the best help I can, should he actually need it, and I will. If I do find someone, maybe I'll consider talking to them myself. That's not a promise, okay? I'm just saying I'll consider it."

He gave her his winning grin. "That's good enough for now."

"I don't know why this is your business, anyway," she said, though the frustration was gone from her voice.

"I told you. You got roped in," Tony replied. "You're stuck with us."

He didn't give her a chance to retort, though her expression had softened anyway. Instead he decided to leave on that good note, and took a few steps backwards before he turned to go. "'Night."

"Goodnight," she said, a bit dazed, even though the door had already closed.


	12. Chapter 11

The next morning was a hot, dusky day. The air was thick with humidity, though it seemed that all nearby storms had blown through the area for the time being. It was the kind of day that made everyone tense just from the pressure, the mantle of tension that rested on every set of shoulders.

Nevertheless, the mood inside NCIS was rather upbeat, especially given the gruesome nature of the two crimes the MCRT were hard-pressed to solve.

At least, Ziva felt rather upbeat. She was the only one in the bullpen so far, so the mood was governed entirely by the fact that she'd had a good night's sleep and a very successful morning run. Traditionally, either Gibbs or McGee would be in next, and finally Tony would join them, just barely on time. Most of the time she and Gibbs took turns arriving first in the mornings, with Tim occasionally beating Ziva to the bullpen. However, Jethro's things were already on his desk and the boss was elsewhere, probably to find good coffee. And a few minutes closer to the start of the workday, it was not McGee who joined her in the bullpen first, but Tony.

DiNozzo also seemed to be in a good mood, newly energized and ready to face the day.

"Morning, Ziva," he said before continuing to hum to himself.

"Good morning, Tony," the Israeli agent replied as she came around to approach his desk. "You are in a very good mood today."

"I had a good night's sleep," he said, cheerful.

"I can tell. I am surprised, especially considering I did not leave until late last night…and I noticed you stayed to talk to Victoria for a while after I left."

"As a matter of fact I did, _Zee-va_ ," the senior agent stood up straight from his desk and looked down at his friend, extending her name as he often did when they bantered. "I happened to stay behind for just a couple of minutes."

"Really, a couple of minutes? Is that all it takes?" she sassed back.

"That's all it takes to ask whether she was also having nightmares and feeling jumpy," Tony said, one eyebrow quirked. "And considering I startled her when I went back in, I'd say the answer is yes, no matter how much she tried to change the subject."

"Perhaps she just didn't want to talk to you anymore?"

"Come on," he teased back finally, his chin tilted up and his face taking on that cocky look. "Who doesn't want to talk to me?"

"Give her time, DiNozzo," Gibbs said as he walked in behind them. He hadn't specifically heard who his agents were discussing, but the last bit of the conversation provided enough context clues, and honestly? He really just wanted to mess with his senior agent a little bit.

"Thank you, Boss."

"Where's McGee?" Jethro asked.

"I'm here, sorry," Tim said quickly, entering the bullpen, bearing coffee for everyone. "There was a line."

"Thank you, McCafé," Tony held up his coffee in a quick cheers. Ziva took hers with a kiss to Tim's cheek. None of the other agents mentioned that he looked jittery and tired, even if it took him an extra minute or two to get settled and comfortable at his desk. Gibbs looked up at his junior agent, and almost pulled him aside, but ultimately decided to wait until later in the day, when everyone had scattered to their tasks and he was alone with the younger man.

"So what've we got?" Jethro asked, and his agents officially sprung into action for the day.

"No suspects for either CPO Moore's death or Michael Coleman's," Ziva said.

"The one thing those cases have in common."

"Actually," Tim answered DiNozzo's pessimistic declaration, "I was thinking about it all last night, and I have a few things I think you guys should see."

He went to work at his keyboard and soon two lists came into view on the bullpen flatscreen.

"So Moore was found in the park by a stream and we're pretty sure he was dumped there, right? And Coleman was killed on his evening run. Besides the fact that they're both flightlings found in parks, and both have connections to the military, there's almost nothing else connecting them. Except for the other thing we know that they have in common."

When he received blank stares, he went back to clicking, and pulled up case notes, this time on his personal screen so that no one walking by might accidentally glance over and see the information. "Neither of them hunted humans. They mostly surrounded themselves with human friends, roommates, and significant others —and Coleman was only really connected to other flightlings when they were his family."

"Lots of flightlings do not hunt humans, McGee," Ziva reminded her friend, but he just made a small huff through his nose to signify that he of course knew this.

"But that's the thing- neither one of them hunted humans, and neither one seemed to ever really worry about hunters coming after them. In Italy, the flightlings I met were always a little wary of hunters, even if they themselves didn't hunt humans, just because that's the social setup they have. They stick together in close, old groups and don't usually let in humans, much less people who are strangers. But here it's different. There are way less flightlings, even in small or historic cities. And they often blend in way more and just seem to incorporate themselves into normal life."

DiNozzo nodded absently, remembering Victoria's words from the night before about how local flightlings tended to blend in more than they did in ancient cities, where the locals were just far more accustomed to the macabre or unbelievable.

"You going somewhere with this, McGee?" Gibbs asked, a bit impatient.

"Yeah, sorry Boss. The point is, flightlings here have a different dynamic with each other, with humans, and with hunters. The ones that we've seen killed so far are the ones that weren't worried and didn't notice something was wrong until it was too late. And I'm not saying all hunters are fair and deliberate when deciding what flightlings need to be "stopped," but how often do you see flightlings —military flightlings— just hunted down for no reason?"

"Whoever got to them either does not know how to get to truly dangerous flightlings who kill, or does not care to know the difference," Ziva said. By her expression McGee could tell that she was starting to agree with him. "I think I remember Fornell telling us last year that hunters usually try to keep their kills quiet, and if not, other hunters might make them stop."

"And there's no way two deliberate hunts by an experienced hunter would make it to our attention. _And_ , there's no way that it wasn't someone deliberately hunting flightlings, because Coleman's wings were cut off, and Moore would have been too strong and too well-trained from his Navy career to be taken down by a regular human who didn't know what they were getting in to."

"It wasn't a mugging because they left his wallet, and it wasn't an experienced hunter because they left his wallet," Ziva mused.

"But the most important thing is Rule 39," Tim said. Tony and Ziva both glanced over at Gibbs. He was right; there was no such thing as a coincidence. "Flightlings aren't really dying out, but they're a small portion of the population. I just forget that because it's all still kind of new to me. But there are few flightlings in the area, and almost no hunters. It can't be a coincidence that two flightlings were killed in the area _this week_ with seemingly no reason."

Gibbs was silent for a minute as he deliberated what to do next. "You're right. Good work, McGee," he started, almost generously. "But it's not enough of a connection to take priority. It doesn't get us a lead."

Tim deflated a bit but did not look too surprised or discouraged. "Sorry, Boss. I'll look for more to go on when we have time."

Jethro nodded. "I'm gonna talk to Fornell again today. I'll see what he says about it. In the meantime, Ziva-" the whole bullpen seemed to snap out of this line of thinking and back into full investigation mode, "go talk to Abby and Ducky and see if they have anything new for us. DiNozzo, McGee, go trace Michael Coleman's jogging route and see if you can find any witness or something that will help us find that van from the security tape."

Gibbs got his gun and badge and headed towards the elevator as his agents scattered to do what they were told.

….

Fornell was busier than usual today, so Jethro did his friend a favor and went to meet him in the cafe out front of his office, coffee already ordered for each of them.

"You know, you could always just call me and we could talk on the phone like regular people," the FBI agent said as he took his drink and they settled at a table against the window. "Or do you really just want to see me that badly?"

Gibbs smirked but did not further acknowledge the friendly ribbing. "We got another flightling case."

"Two in a row? Jesus. Same perp?"

"No evidence of that, but McGee thinks so."

"Do you?"

"Yeah," the senior agent admitted. His gut was telling him the same thing that Ziva and Tim had discussed, but because they had absolutely no suspects and no definitive motives, there really wasn't much they could do about it just yet.

Fornell listened as Gibbs described the second murder, how they had very loose ties to the first case, but nothing more. When he was done his friend was quiet for a minute.

"There's no way two flightlings from military families just get killed in the same week by coincidence. But you're right- I can't see any other connection."

This reminded him of why Jethro was there to see him, and he changed subjects.

"I asked around like I promised, but no one knows anything about it. The only guys in the area I know that do hunt haven't recently. Said they hadn't picked up a trail in a while. I don't know about anyone else, and I haven't gotten any reports across my desk that seem flightling-related. I know that doesn't mean that there's no flightlings out there killing people, but there haven't been any conspicuous ones at least."

Gibbs paused, then looked out the window at the pedestrians going by. "Never occurred to me before now that a bunch of us going out at night and hunting people down without evidence might be a problem."

"That's because before now you didn't think of them as people. You thought of them as monsters," Fornell answered, unperturbed. "And sometimes, they are. You gotta admit that, Jethro."

McGee had made similar declarations in the past. And as his junior agent had learned, (and was still learning,) the fine line that flightlings could tread between person and monster was possibly swayed by instinct (Gibbs didn't know the details, just overheard Tim and Abby working on it every now and then) and overall, it was defined by choice.

"The ones that are murdered come to us and we investigate. The ones that go out and murder are caught in the act and stopped," Tobias continued.

"I don't have a problem with that. But only a few of us around here know the difference and what to do. There're people out there who will just kill who they want."

"That's a problem, yeah. But there are humans out there who just kill other humans, and we go after them, just like you're going after your guy who's been killing flightlings who never hurt anyone."

Well, that was true. He couldn't necessarily argue with that. But it still bothered him that just anyone could be a hunter without any regulation, and Fornell could see that. Still, neither of them exactly had an idea of how to change the situation. In the past, if a hunter ever went too far or started to get out of hand, other hunters would usually notice and step in. Or, more likely, flightlings would take notice and be even more determined to put a stop to it.

Gibbs had never really considered it before, but now that he personally knew and had lived with and fought alongside flightlings, now that one of his "kids" was a flightling, he realized that it wasn't just a switch flipped; that people with wings didn't just suddenly snap and morph into monsters. They made the choice and slowly descended into that state of being. On the other hand, he'd seen flightlings so murderous, so ancient and twisted and evil that they were in no way human; that their bones and their wings had gone brittle and their eyes fogged up like moonlight and though their faces did not morph, they took on this animalistic, heinous countenance. Surely those creatures, who stole souls from innocent humans and murdered indiscriminately…shouldn't they be stopped? Could they even be considered _people_ anymore?

But what were they going to do? Set up a club? Deputize people and hand out hunting licenses to only those they approved of? The situation had always been thus: if a hunter only went after the most evil and dangerous of flightlings, kept it to himself, and did not cause problems, then everyone left him alone. And it wasn't like they were doing an activity that you could just be certified for off of the internet. Usually someone older and experienced took on a younger individual and trained them to do the work. If you were not meant to be doing it- if you were irresponsible and indiscriminate? Well, you were probably going to get yourself killed anyway. There was no registrar of people who knew about flightlings, no true "most-wanted" list for flightling crime, even if Gibbs, Vance, Fornell, and other more experienced hunters kept files and actually did research and treated their second life as though it were its own job. Even though there was a pretty accurate grapevine of local hunters- who's to say they were the only ones? There was no way of accurately finding out how many hunters there were in the area. They just knew there weren't many, but that wasn't a number.

It suddenly occurred to Gibbs that this was very similar to how McGee described flightling communities in America. The similarities in social structure between the prey and predators was striking. It was just a question of which group was _what_ at any given time. And it did change, go back and forth, shifted as all such struggles do.

Funny how that worked out.

…...

Ziva hadn't had any luck in the hour or so that she'd spent in the lower floors of NCIS. Ducky was finishing up Michael Coleman's autopsy details, and while they had an idea of what kind of weapon had killed the boy, it wasn't enough to trace anything. No fingerprints were found anywhere on the body. Abby, for her part, had run the blood samples they'd picked up from Coleman's clothes through every database she could, but came up with no matches. If they had a suspect, they'd be able to match it. Until then, they were stuck.

Ziva had helped the forensic tech go back over every single inch of evidence they'd picked up from either crime scene, but came up with nothing. Abby also had a good estimate of what kind of weapons might have been used to shoot CPO Moore, but they didn't have enough information to pick one specific type of gun. Since there was no bullet found, they couldn't even begin to trace anything having to do with a weapon.

So, they were stuck.

Ziva hoped that Tony and McGee would find something remotely useful while they were out. Gibbs also hadn't returned from talking to Fornell, so she was alone in the bullpen, left to contemplate the case and decide what to do with herself.

She wasn't left wondering for long, as her cell phone rang and she answered it to hear Victoria's voice on the line.

" **Hey Ziva. I'm sorry to bother you. You have a second? It's about your case. Or cases, rather.** "

"Not at all. You actually called at the perfect time."

" **Oh, good. I've been texting with Tim all morning but I didn't want to tell him anything just yet after last night's discussion about him. So I think I told you I had a friend who is a flightling doctor? Or, he's a doctor who happens to be a flightling and locals seem to know to see him or to go to his hospital for emergency medical attention. Anyway, he has a couple of patients who are flightlings who happen to be in the military. He obviously couldn't tell me their names, but he suggested I ask a friend of his about it to a friend of his who works at the Annapolis Naval Academy. Who happens to be a flightling. I was wondering if you would be interested in following up on this with me. I think he would appreciate speaking to someone from NCIS directly. If you're busy, we can do it whenever, or I could always do it myself. Or Tim, Tony, or Agent Gibbs could do it….** "

Ziva looked at the clock on her computer. She had almost a whole workday ahead of her, no leads, and only a hunch to go on. Gibbs wasn't there to let her go, but she really wanted to go to Annapolis…

Her boss entered the bullpen at that very moment, and she Ziva asked Victoria to hold for a minute while she checked with him. After he listened to her relay Victoria's findings, he nodded. "Go."

"Victoria?" Ziva said into her phone. "Be ready, I'm on my way to pick you up."

A short while later, the two women were parking at the Naval Academy and Ziva was leading the way through the sprawling, stately but ever-quiet campus. The Naval Academy was built like a museum as much as it was a college, the shadow of two hundred years of duty and excellence cast over every ageless building, every monument. This was one of those places where the sheer amount of legacy and expectation made everything still and hollow and despite the duty and importance that drove people to this place, it was altogether scrubbed of emotion.

Still, it was very beautiful.

Victoria settled the badge on her blouse, suddenly embarrassed at her casual jeans. She had never been to Annapolis before and she'd hadn't expected to actually find herself at the campus so soon after she called Ziva. Still, the ex-Mossad agent was wearing her signature cargo pants and a black shirt, which made her feel better about her own practical clothing choice.

A few young officers, all men, walked by the two young men and Ziva caught their interested glances as they passed. "Ugh. Midshipmen," she muttered.

"I'm certainly glad you came here with me. I don't think I would have been so well received without a partner with an NCIS badge," Victoria said.

"I am very grateful that you arranged this," Ziva countered. "You didn't have to, but it is a great help."

Truthfully, Ziva was becoming more and more fond of Victoria. While she loved her teammates, they almost all happened to be men. Other than Abby, the Israeli woman did not have a whole lot of female friends, much less any half as fierce as she was. Victoria came close, at least in times of danger.

"Don't mention it. I'm happy to help."

They went to the political sciences building and found a hallway housing countless faculty offices.

"Room 105," Victoria murmured so as not to create an echo in the cavernous hall. Ziva walked on until she came to the room in question and stopped at the open doorway.

"Excuse me," she announced her presence. The older African American man behind the office's large desk looked up from his work.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Are you Dr. Bartel?" Victoria asked.

"I hope so, otherwise I'm in the wrong office," the gentleman chuckled and stood. "And you are?"

"NCIS Special Agent Ziva David," Ziva flashed her badge. "And this is Victoria Clark."

"We spoke on the phone earlier this morning," Victoria said.

"Ah, that's right. Doctor Steve Nacht's friend. Come in, have a seat."

When everyone had settled down, Dr. Bartel shuffled some papers out of the way and turned his full attention on his visitors. "Now, what can I do for you?"

Victoria looked over at Ziva, silently deferring to her as the lead in this interview. "We have some questions for you regarding two murder cases NCIS is working on. Both victims were flightlings."

Bartel frowned. "Would these murders happen to be Chief Petty Officer Moore and Michael Coleman?"

Ziva nodded, but Victoria looked surprised. "How did you know that?" she asked.

"CPO and the son of a Lieutenant dead in the same week? Word like that gets around. Not a whole lot of Navy boys are killed out of combat. Everyone hears about it when it happens."

"Did you know they were flightlings?" Ziva asked.

"No, I didn't know either of them personally," the professor replied. He opened his mouth to say more, but promptly shut it and got up to close his office door. When it was shut and he'd returned to his desk, he resumed. "All the flightlings I've personally known in the service I could count on one hand, and that's after forty years. Maybe one student every three years comes to the academy that I confirm as being one of us."

"Would you be able to estimate how many flightlings you think there are in the Navy?"

"In the entire Navy? I don't know…I mean, we're what, probably less than 1% of the world's population?" he looked at Victoria and she nodded before he turned back to Ziva. "Military life isn't really good for keeping a secret like that. So probably less than 1% of the Navy is flightling."

"You did, yes? You kept it a secret?"

"Barely. My CO wasn't one himself but I had to tell him about us when I was wounded. He was a good man and helped me keep it quiet. But you're living in close quarters, almost no private time…it's a miracle if someone doesn't find you out. It's not for everyone."

"Do you know any current students who are flightlings? Any active servicemen or women?" Ziva asked.

"None in this time zone. Why?"

"I am concerned that whoever killed Moore and Michael Coleman may have a very specific target- flightlings in the Navy, or perhaps any branch of the military. And their family members."

"I'd be surprised if whoever did it ran out of targets already. I don't know of anyone who fits that criteria in the area. Like I said, that's a really small minority."

The NCIS agent was quiet for a moment, and Victoria took this pause to ask a question that had been bothering her since they'd sat down.

"Would there be anyone, anywhere, that kept record of flightlings in the service?"

Dr. Bartel looked concerned. "No, I don't think so. The only people who would know anything about them would be doctors who perform physicals, and then all they could do is probably make a note about a pair of back scars and maybe excellent senses and strength. That's what happened when I joined. I said I got the scars from a childhood bike accident and they believed me. Or maybe they were just desperate for soldiers and I had perfect vision and hearing and they wanted to keep me around."

"I'm sure there's a database somewhere that can give medical personnel access to such records," Victoria looked at Ziva, who pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Most likely."

"Well if they knew little tells to look for in old doctors' notes, your killer would certainly have an easier way of finding targets. Like a barrel of fish," the professor said. "Provided they had access to those records, that is."

"Well, that is something to look for, at least," Ziva said. "It gives us a lot of possible suspects to sort through."

"One more thing," Victoria said. "Dr. Bartel, do you happen to know any other flightlings outside of military life? I am new to the area, and I'd like to get to know anyone more socially connected to others like us if I can- to see how gossip travels and if anyone may know anything that could help us."

"Well, unfortunately I don't, but my nephew does. I'll talk to him for you and see if there's anywhere in particular that you might find what you're looking for."

The two women thanked the elderly man profusely, leaving Ziva's contact information with him so that he could reach them if need be. And as soon as they'd stepped out into the hot sun, the NCIS agent started heading to the car.

"Let's get something cold around the harbor. I could use a water while we talk this over."

"Sure thing. You're the agent in charge here," Victoria said, which made her companion smile. When they'd gotten a water and iced tea, the two walked slowly towards the car while discussing the interview.

"I know I'm not an expert, but it seems like getting access to an enormous database of private medical information wouldn't be too easy."

"It won't be," Ziva said. "But we don't need to have access yet, we just need to know who _does_ have access."

At this point, her cell rang and she answered it on the first buzz. "Hello, Gibbs. We were just-" at this she trailed off, and her eyes went wide. Victoria's advanced hearing should have been enough to catch what the lead agent had said, but before she even started to listen, the call had ended, and Ziva had become tense.

"What is it?"

"We have to go to the hospital. Now."


	13. Chapter 12

Earlier that morning, after Gibbs dismissed them, Tony and McGee settled in to DiNozzo's car and headed towards Michael Coleman's former apartment.

"You look rough, McGee," the senior agent commented.

"Gee, thanks, Tony," Tim quipped. "You always know just what to say."

"I'm serious, Probie."

"I just didn't sleep well. It's fine. I'll catch up on sleep tonight."

DiNozzo did not answer, instead letting the conversation shift naturally. "If you say so. In the meantime, I think we're gonna actually get something useful out of this."

"What makes you say that?"

"My gut."

McGee snorted. "I don't know if the "Gibbs gut" is something you can learn."

"Ah, come on, McGeek. After all this time you can't _not_ learn it. Don't tell me your intuition hasn't gotten better over the years. I know it has."

"...Alright, fine. It has."

Tony chuckled at the small victory. "Hopefully by the end of today we'll have more leads to go on."

"Yeah…" McGee glanced out the window before looking back at his friend. "Do you think Moore and Coleman's murders are connected?"

DiNozzo paused. "I don't wanna make any declarations, but like you said earlier: Rule 39. There's no way it's a coincidence. At the very least it would have to be a freak accident that two flightlings were killed. But it wasn't an accident and it wasn't a coincidence."

"Gibbs is right, though," Tim said, a bit dejected, "we don't have any physical evidence to make the connection and no leads to follow up on it."

"Hey, Ziva might find something with Ducky or Abby. Who knows. The day just started."

"You're right. I just…this one's bugging me, Tony. We need to solve this one."

"We will," the senior agent affirmed as he pulled on to their intended street. "You got that map of Coleman's route that I sent?"

"Yeah, it's pulled up in my maps," McGee got out his phone, suddenly brightening up. "I forgot to tell you- I looked at the running app on his phone and I can see where he stopped running. I'll be able to track his pace and where he was stopped." They parked and got out, but after a minute of blinking at the sun, both agents shared a look and took off their blazers, leaving them in the car.

"God, it's hot," Tony complained. "If we weren't in public I'd have you get out your wings and make us some shade."

"Luckily for me, we are in public and I can still say _no_."

"Come on, McGee. What's the point of having wings if you can't use them?"

"Well, flying, for starters. Fighting…general equilibrium and protection…those are all good uses."

"Shading us from the sun is protection," DiNozzo bantered back. Tim rolled his eyes even as his lips quirked a bit. He then focused on their route and started down the street.

"Coleman ran all this distance every day?"

"According to his roommate he was training for a half marathon or something," Tony said, orienting them as they passed in front of Coleman's building. "So he started here…there's the CCTV camera," he gestured to the little gadget fixed to the side of the building far over their heads. "And the van was parked…there," he nodded down the street. "Coleman goes that way, and the van goes after him."

Tim nodded. "Here we go."

The two agents made the trek, taking note of every surveillance camera positioned on private properties along the running path. There weren't many, but the idea was that (hopefully) they could go back and get the footage from each camera and see Coleman running. And presumably, see the van following behind.

"Ok, so he was about to cross the street here," McGee noted at a crosswalk. "But he stopped for a while. Long enough that the run paused on the app for a minute."

"I can't see a whole lot of traffic being here late at night," Tony mused. "Wonder what made him stop."

Tim looked behind them at a camera on the corner shop. "Hopefully that one got whatever it was."

They kept on for another half mile, until the app brought them to the spot in the park where Michael Coleman had been found.

"Huh. So it all did happen right here," McGee said. "I thought maybe he might have been snatched and then dropped off at this place. This is where his phone was dropped and where the app officially ended the run."

He looked at the road that ran through the park and circled around a fountain before heading back the same way. "If the person in the van did attack Coleman, he probably had to drive it to its dead end and go back the same way afterwards."

"Good thinking. Alright, well…four cameras? I counted four," Tony said. "Let's go back and see if we can get a look at any of them."

Some of the people they asked were more helpful than others. The two individuals who answered the door to their private homes flat-out refused to help and closed the door on the agents' faces. However, the shopkeepers that owned the other two cameras were much more open to sharing their footage.

The little shop on the corner was closest to the park, so they stopped there first on their way back to the car. When they flashed their badges and explained themselves, the barista at the cafe retrieved her manager, who immediately offered to help. The manager pulled up the recording from the evening they needed, and Tony and McGee watched as Michael Coleman jogged into view. He made it to the corner of the sidewalk, paused to look both ways, and when he didn't see anyone, kept going. However, just as he was about to step into the street, the big windowless van whipped around the corner, startling the young man and causing him to jump back onto the curb. The agents saw the kid watch the van go down the street and bend over to get his disturbed breathing back on track. Then Coleman straightened up and jogged on, not realizing that he was running towards the place where he would shortly be killed. Then they fast forwarded the video and stopped it when they saw the van then come back the way it came.

"You were right," DiNozzo said. "It turned around in the park and went back down the street."

"Well, we can pretty much say for sure that whoever was in that van killed Michael Coleman," McGee nodded. "But the picture is fuzzy here, too. Not clear enough to get the license plate."

They thanked the cafe workers and continued back the way they came. When they got to a warehouse where the first camera was hooked up, they stopped short.

"This place looks abandoned," Tony looked up at the building in front of them.

"That camera doesn't even look like it's on," the junior agent added. "I didn't notice that the first time we passed it."

"Still, let's go in, see if anyone's working here that could help us."

Tim followed the senior agent into the door. Neither of them felt their confidence boost once inside the warehouse, which seemed to be devoid of life. Rusty scrap metal and industrial equipment was strewn about. Everything was coated in dust. At the far end of the structure, old totaled cars were here and there.

"Damn," Tony muttered. "Well, it was worth a shot. Let's…" he trailed off as his eyes fixed on one of the cars. The only vehicle that was not dusty and busted up happened to be a large, windowless, dark blue van.

McGee followed his line of sight and his own eyes widened at the scene. They didn't hear anyone around, but slowly and silently approached the van.

The hood was up, as if someone had just been doing work on the engine.

DiNozzo paced around the van, careful not to touch anything but looking for anything of note. Tim took his phone back out and snapped a picture of the license plate to run in the database once they returned to NCIS.

The older of the two agents was gazing at the door to the driver's seat, trying to decide if he should try and open it or to wait. Before he could make the decision, McGee's head snapped up. DiNozzo could tell that the younger man heard something and examined the junior agent's face for a hint at what he was listening for.

Tim for his part was struggling, because he couldn't quite tell how far away the footsteps he heard were. Every little sound echoed with the high ceilings and distorted his ability to determine what was nearby.

He eventually decided that he heard the footsteps coming from another room in the warehouse, to the right. They were getting closer and the agents were about to decide whether to hide or wait for the person walking towards them. However, the echoes did indeed throw off McGee, because he thought the approaching visitor was much further away than he was. So the two men weren't prepared when the small figure rounded the corner and saw them. The figure froze, half his face covered by a small mask that he'd undoubtedly been using while working amongst the dust.

"Hi, how're you doing?" Tony said, having no choice but to try and act casual now that they were discovered. But the person did not answer. Instead, he turned and bolted back through the door and into the side room.

"Hey! Stop! NCIS!" DiNozzo shouted. He and McGee immediately gave chase, sprinting after the figure into the next room, which was simply another cavernous space full of junk. The messiness helped the unknown person, who seemed to be familiar with the layout. Meanwhile, Tony and Tim had to watch their step so as not to tread on a loose piece of scrap and twist their ankles or break something. They'd both just leapt over a small obstructed area when DiNozzo noticed that the man had stopped to reach into his waistband and pulled out a firearm.

"Gun!" Tony yelled, drawing his own SIG Sauer and skirting behind a large nearby heap of scrap metal. McGee ducked behind an old, abandoned car that provided him with a good vantage point to see where the man was running, and drew his weapon as well.

If Ziva and Gibbs had been there, the team could have done their oft-played strategy of having one agent cut off a fleeing suspect from behind the building. However, it was just the two of them. So direct pursuit was all they had.

The unnamed man turned to fire at the agents, but when he saw that they were taking cover, he changed his mind and kept running. The two partners went after him again.

The back of the warehouse had a large rack of chains standing out by itself in the open. It seemed like the last person to use this rack had just strewn the chains all over the rack without sorting them, and so they hung down like a bead-curtain made for a fan of heavy metal. Unfortunately, the mysterious person ran through the chains without issue, his figure now a bit obstructed by the chains. Tim pushed ahead of Tony, using his strength to send him further forward with each stride, hoping they could reach the perp before he got away.

And then he hit the chains.

In this fast-paced pursuit, McGee hadn't stopped to consider what would happen if he were suddenly to find himself held back and weighed down by chains. Just the day before he'd had to be removed from a meat locker because it was too much; why wouldn't this evoke a different reaction?

Well, to be fair, it did evoke a different reaction. The problem is, it was a _worse_ reaction.

He might have made it through alright, but a loud bang caused him to stop in his tracks just as he felt the irons on his shoulders and arms. And suddenly he wasn't in the warehouse anymore, and all Tim could feel were his wrists locked in manacles and the stretch in his arms as he was tied to the floor, which was several feet below him and he could smell his blood and hear it rushing in his ears and there were muted, fuzzy sounds of pain which were _coming from him_ and _god_ was his vision blurry and everything _hurt_ and he felt like he was on fire and his wings were in absolute _agony_. He was going to be sick, he was going to pass out, he was going to die, he was going to die, _he was going to die_.

…..

DiNozzo, for his part, had fallen a few paces behind McGee in their pursuit. He would have made some quip about how when they first started working together he could've outrun Tim any day of the week, but things took a turn for the worse very quickly and those thoughts were immediately swept from his mind.

It wasn't like they had never gone after perps with guns before. It wasn't even like they'd never been fired at before. But never had things gone this superbly badly on a normal case-related, on-foot chase.

In front of the senior agent, their subject had run through what looked almost like a wall of chains. But, he could vaguely make out through the spaces that there was a back door to the warehouse on the other side. Luckily, Tim was gaining on the guy, and if they could keep it up for just a little bit longer then they'd get him.

However, a sudden **bang** echoed around the high ceiling and although it caused the senior agent to jump slightly, he only broke his pace for a second before he was back up to running at full speed. But he quickly stopped short when he noticed that McGee had halted in his tracks. As he'd always been trained to do, Tony ran past his friend, but he was far enough behind that when he turned the corner to the outside of the building, the unnamed man was nowhere to be seen.

While part of him wanted to keep running, he knew it wouldn't help at all. And besides, his concern for his best friend would always supersede suspect-chasing, whether DiNozzo would ever admit that or not.

It was a good thing he decided to turn back, too. Because when he reentered the warehouse he immediately saw Tim twitching and breathing harsh, empty breaths. He was still on his feet, still amongst the chains, but his head was down and one hand was clenched tight on his firearm. The other hand was hovering over his head, as if he were about to grab it from a painful headache.

"Woah, hey, McGee-" the senior agent approached quickly, his own hands slightly up and out in a gesture meant to calm, even though the younger man wasn't looking at him. "McGee, talk to me."

But Tim looked up and it was clear from the distant, almost vacant look in his eyes that the junior agent did not see Tony. In fact, it was pretty clear he didn't realize where he was at all.

DiNozzo had seen a lot of terrifying things over the past year. He'd seen his loved ones, including and especially McGee, injured within an inch of his life. All throughout their awful adventures, whenever he was nervous about Tim's remaining humanity, he looked at his friend's face and saw in his eyes that McGee was still there. But this?

His fear for a while had been that he'd look at his friend, newly changed into a flightling, and one day he wouldn't see that man anymore, but a killer. This look was somehow far more frightening, for when Tony looked at his friend now, he saw that Tim was _gone_. He was off somewhere else, trapped in some corner of his mind, seeing and experiencing horrors that DiNozzo had only seen the aftermath of in real life.

Tony had very little knowledge of psychology. But the words "trauma" and "flashback" flickered somewhere in the back of his mind and he knew that McGee could neither hear nor see him, that the younger man was in trouble, and, even scarier, that the junior agent was still holding his gun.

DiNozzo stepped off to the side so that even if the firearm were to go off, it wouldn't hit him. He knew that suddenly touching McGee wouldn't help, and in fact might make things worse, but he had to get that SIG out of his friend's hand.

Slowly, cautiously, Tony reached out. "Hey, Tim, it's me. You're safe. I'm just going to take this away for a sec, okay?"

He put his hand over McGee's, and although the younger man didn't panic any further, he did jump a bit at the touch, still staring out into space. The senior agent then used his other hand to gently pry Tim's fingers off of the weapon….

Success. With a small breath of relief, DiNozzo drew the SIG Sauer closer and quickly removed the magazine, before sliding the gun away and putting the magazine of bullets in his back pocket. With this concern neutralized, he could finally put his full attention on attending to his friend.

"McGee, look at me," this didn't work, but he said it anyway, "you're in a warehouse. You're not in Italy, you're safe. You're safe. You just ran into some chains, that's all. McGee…"

This didn't seem to be working. Tim was still locked in a frozen, still position, the metal still all around him, clinking, running across his shoulders and his back.

"Tim, I'm gonna move you back a few steps, okay? Out into the open. No chains. You're safe."

He gently put pressure on the younger man's arm until they were both backing up out of the tangled web that had put them in this situation. It looked like they were almost going to make it out without issue. But a lose couple of links must have brushed against McGee at the last second, because he suddenly jumped, and his wings flew open with a snap. Unfortunately, he wasn't wearing clothes altered to accommodate his wings, and his shirt tore apart from the strain. They didn't fly off of him per se, but his clothes were now in bunched rags around his shoulders and arms, his back exposed to the open air. And still, Tim did not snap out of it. In fact, now that his most valuable weapons were out and accessible, things got worse. The big feathery appendages arched slightly up and around their owner in a protective posture, almost as if the wings had a mind of their own and only sought to defend their owner. This movement caused DiNozzo to stumble back a step, and yet McGee still had that absent, trapped, terrified expression on his face. The younger man let out an inhuman hiss. Tony had heard this before, but only in the most stressful and dangerous of situations. It was pure instinct when Tim made that sound, and to be honest, it made the senior agent all the more stressed. But nothing compared to the fear he felt when the now-raggedy shirt slipped off of one shoulder to reveal, plain as day, that not only had their suspect fired his weapon, but that McGee had been shot.

...

 **A/N: thanks for sticking with me, guys. I promised I'd pick up the pace soon, didn't I? let me know what you think!**


	14. Chapter 13

The gunshot wound would have been mild, if such a thing exists. But the thing about flightlings being a secret was that it made getting emergency medical attention tricky. As long as McGee was sure to keep his wings in check, he could see any doctor he needed. In a situation like this? When he wasn't thinking straight because he'd been shot, and seemed to be experiencing a flashback? It couldn't be guaranteed that he could keep his wings, or any of his powers, in check while on morphine or under anesthesia. It wouldn't be helpful it, during surgery, an unconscious Tim's wings popped open, knocking he surgeon and his assistants down and giving several nearby nurses mouths full of feathers.

These were the thoughts that were running through DiNozzo's mind as he stood, trying to remain calm, trying to calm his friend, but almost entirely unsure of what to do. There wasn't training at FLETC for what should be done when your flightling partner and best friend gets shot in the shoulder and experiences a flashback when you have no backup.

…Well, there was training for when your human partner gets shot, so Tony went from there.

"McGee….Tim, listen to me. You're in a warehouse. We're in D.C. We aren't in Italy. Breathe, Tim. Come on."

The junior agent appeared to slowly gain his sense of reality back, but was still very much inside of his head. Meanwhile, his shoulder continued to bleed. DiNozzo knew that it was a bad idea to put pressure on his friend's wound while McGee was still out of it, but he didn't feel as though he had much of a choice.

"McGee, we're gonna sit down, okay? Come on," the senior agent repeated his words of encouragement, putting one hand on his friend's forearm and another grabbing his shaking hand. Tim, a bit more pliable now, did as he was told and slowly sunk down to his knees, and then sat back where Tony leaned him up against an old car. McGee's wings still stayed up and out, so he couldn't sit directly up against the abandoned vehicle, but they were on the ground, which was a major improvement. At this point, the younger man's shirt was hanging off the injured shoulder but sticking to his skin thanks to the blood that was all over.

"Alright McGee, you with me?" Tony asked, not waiting to figure out the answer to his own question. "We gotta put pressure on this, okay?"

DiNozzo quickly tore a piece of the already-ripped shirt from his friend's the opposite side; the one not already spattered red. He rolled the cloth up and pressed it to Tim's shoulder.

Which did not go all that well.

Although McGee had been slowly coming out of his shocked state, this new burst of pain to his arm held him from breaking back into the real world. He saw the warehouse, he saw his wings in good shape (save the bit of spatter that had gotten on them), but his mind insisted that he was being attacked all over again.

Most of us automatically respond to a painful stimulus by getting away from it. Or, if this is impossible, by grabbing it and removing it so that the thing can't hurt us anymore. Tim's brain, addled as it was by fear, adrenaline, and pain, opted for the second.

When his injured friend grabbed his arm, Tony tried, and failed, to stifle an involuntary grunt of pain. From what he'd seen flightlings do with their strength, he knew he wasn't getting a full experience of McGee's strength. However, the vicelike grip on his wrist was far from comfortable, and in the back of his mind, DiNozzo knew that if he didn't get Tim to let go, he could very well panic further and injure both of them very badly.

"McGee," he panted, trying not to struggle and make things worse. "It's me. You gotta let go of my hand, man. I need you to help me help you. I know you're in there, Probie."

After a few moments of this, Tim's shoulders slumped and he breathed out a rush of air that had been struggling to escape his lungs. He let go of DiNozzo's arm and wrist, physically spent, and blinked at the lights high over their heads.

"That's it. Welcome back, McGee," Tony quipped between deep breaths of his own. "You with me?"

Tim nodded faintly, barely there at all. "What happened?" he croaked.

"You got yourself shot again," DiNozzo said, trying to keep his tone light. "You're gonna be fine, it just clipped your shoulder. You freaked out for a bit there. Think you can fold your wings away?"

McGee nodded again, looking so exhausted that it seemed he might pass out right then and there. But with the older man's help, he leaned forward, wincing through the pain this caused him, and folded his wings out of sight.

"Alright. Here, you keep putting pressure on that. Keep this arm down. Like that- good," Tony directed. With things finally calmed down a bit, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. He couldn't unlock it with his fingerprint, as his hands were currently covered in Tim's blood and the poor phone didn't understand, so he had to manually type out his password, intermittently trying to wipe his hands off on his shirt and pants.

As it didn't appear to be a life-threatening injury, they now had the ability to call Gibbs and figure out what to do.

The team leader picked up on the first ring, and before he'd even finished saying Tony's name, DiNozzo was quickly explaining their situation.

"Boss, McGee's been shot. I think he's gonna be fine but he needs to go to the hospital-"

" **Where are you?** " Gibbs asked, and the senior agent could hear his boss grabbing his keys out of his desk in the bullpen.

"In a warehouse down the street from Coleman's apartment. I'd take him to the hospital but, uh…we had a bit of an incident with his wings and he panicked for a minute there…I'm not sure what kind of attention we can get him without it being a problem."

Jethro was quiet on the line for a moment, and then DiNozzo heard the elevator ding on the other end of the line.

" **Hold on for a minute-** ** _Duck!_** " Gibbs was calling, clearly in the morgue by now. There was some muttering as the team leader explained to Ducky what had happened, and then suddenly it was Dr. Mallard himself on the line.

" **Anthony, are you there?** "

"Yeah."

" **Okay, you're putting pressure on the wound?** "

"Yeah, he was hit in the shoulder."

" **Is he conscious?** "

Tony looked up at his friend's face; Tim was indeed blinking some more, but was still very much out of it.

"Kind of. He's awake but not with me all that much."

" **I'd expect so. Can you get him to the nearest hospital?** "

"Won't that be a problem? Especially with his wings…"

 **"** **If his wings are away and he is unconscious by the time he gets to surgery, it shouldn't be a problem. Anesthetics are paralytics, so his muscles wouldn't work to cause any accidental revelation of what he is," the elderly doctor assured him. "The real issue will be getting him over to the hospital in an ambulance without anything happening. That could be stressful enough to keep him awake and cause him to panic, so we'd have to find a way to either sedate him beforehand or guarantee he's not going to show his powers to anyone."**

After a second's thought, DiNozzo shook his head into the phone. "His wings are already put away. I'll drive him."

" **If you're sure, and it isn't risking his life any further, then I have no problem with it. Do you know the way to the nearest hospital?** "

"We passed it on the way. I'll send you our location so that Gibbs can find us."

" **Alright. Good luck, we'll meet up with you as soon as we can**."

Tony disconnected the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket, then quickly gathered himself up and put his shoulders under Tim's uninjured arm.

"Let's go, Probie," he grunted, his stress causing him to revert back to his older nickname for his friend.

"I….I can walk, Tony…" McGee volunteered between breaths.

"Alright, if you say so," the older man agreed, letting him go and walking close next to him in case he should need the physical support. Before leaving, he grabbed both his and Tim's firearms and led the way back to the main room of the warehouse space. When they made it there, DiNozzo noticed immediately that the large dark van was gone, driven out the garage-style exit in the back wall. He hadn't heard the suspect leave after he'd dropped his pursuit in favor of helping Tim, but now Tony couldn't help but bite mutter a curse under his breath that he hadn't watched the van better in their moment of chaos.

The two agents exited the abandoned warehouse and were hit with the open air, which despite its oppressive heat, felt almost cool compared to the stale, uncirculated air inside. At this point, the senior agent's phone buzzed, and he checked it briefly to see that it was Gibbs calling back.

"Boss?"

" **DiNozzo, change of plans. Ziva's gonna send you an address for a place a little further away**."

"Why not go to the nearest hospital?" Tony asked, confused.

" **Victoria apparently knows a doctor at this one who sees flightlings.** "

 _Thank god._ That eliminated a large portion of his concerns. After hanging up, the senior agent saw that he had indeed gotten a texted location from Ziva. At this point, he and Tim had slowly reached their parked car, and Tony helped ease his injured friend into the passenger seat, jumped into the driver's spot, and gunned both the engine and air conditioning before tearing off towards their destination.

…

Honestly, DiNozzo wasn't one hundred percent positive he was even at the right hospital. Yes, he'd put in the address that Ziva had sent him, which had apparently been approved by Victoria, but he hadn't stopped to confirm with any of his teammates that the doctor they were coming to this specific institution for even knew that they needed his services. When Tony had pulled up to the emergency room doors and helped McGee out, the younger man was immediately whisked away the staff members who had come out to receive their newest patient. The senior agent had been so preoccupied with getting where they needed to go that he'd had no plan for what to do when they actually arrived. Next thing he knew, McGee, half-conscious as he was, was being put in a wheelchair to be rolled quickly towards the medical attention he needed. Next thing he knew, he was being directed to pull out of the ambulance zone and park, and by the time he got into the actual E.R. reception area, Tim was gone. So the nurses led him to a waiting room, then a particularly nervous intern came over and assessed him for a concussion or any other possible injuries, despite his insistence that he was fine. Then they gave him a spare scrub-top to change into, as his own shirt had quite a bit of blood on it. However, he wanted to be in the waiting room to wait for the rest of his team; the last thing they needed was for someone to come out with an update on McGee's wellbeing and find an empty waiting room because he was in the bathroom changing into someone else's scrubs.

He didn't have to wait too long, luckily, because Gibbs and Ducky appeared a short while later.

"He's in surgery," Tony said as he stood up, before they even had the chance to ask. "Shouldn't be too bad. It caught him in the shoulder."

"Well if it severed an artery, he'd already be dead, so I suppose you may be right," Ducky said. "Although if he was hit in the humerus and broke it there could be all manor of problems."

"I don't think it did," DiNozzo responded. Gibbs looked his senior agent up and down to asses his mental and physical state.

"That for you?" he asked, eyeing the shirt on the chair next to where Tony had been sitting.

"Oh, yeah…"

"Go change. Hey," Jethro called his agent's attention back to him as the younger man walked by. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just…" he trailed off, but his boss seemed to understand his implied feeling of exhaustion and that jarring stillness that comes after escaping a high-pressure, stressful situation. Gibbs nodded and let him go.

He supposed if he really tried, he could possibly try to bleach his white button-up shirt back into its intended shade, although he didn't really care to try, and instead rolled up his tie and shoved it in his pocket. The bloody shirt went in a biohazard can he passed on the way back. But it took him some time - and a lot of paper towels - to get Tim's blood off of his hands and forearms. It was at this moment, when reaching for the sink, that DiNozzo realized just how much it hurt to move his left hand. He looked down and saw the ugly bruises that were beginning to form around his forearm and wrist. When Tim had grabbed him in the warehouse, he'd been focused on too much else to realize that his friend might have done some actual damage. But now there were purple splotches on his skin that suggested otherwise. It hurt to flex his wrist, but he could move it and there was no agony, so Tony was fairly certain he'd survive.

When he was done, he slipped on the borrowed shirt, which was a bit too big for him, and made his way back to the waiting room.

He sat in the chairs across from Ducky and Gibbs, and before he could decide whether wanted to wait for Ziva and Victoria to join them before telling the full story, the two women in question arrived.

Neither of them looked particularly frantic; not that he would expect hysterics from Ziva, but….well, no, come to think of it, Victoria was closely-acquainted with this kind of danger and either way, had never been particularly flappable. But Gibbs had told Ziva over the phone that it didn't appear to be a critical hit and that McGee should be fine, so neither woman had any just cause to panic, anyway. Tony watched as they each silently took in the faces before them, and while he knew his own sunken, tired expression most likely was less than comforting, he also knew that the general atmosphere of the waiting room wasn't exceptionally heavy or depressing, leaving the newcomers to discern that no bad news had been shared as of yet. When they sat, DiNozzo cleared his throat and went about telling the full tale of how they'd come to be in this situation, answering questions about the van, and the mystery shooter, and how McGee had reacted when he went into his flashback. When he was done, Gibbs asked Dr. Mallard how long they should expect this surgery to be.

"We'll be waiting awhile," Ducky told them. "Even though from what Tony told us, it should be a minor wound at worst, it will take some time to operate, make sure everything is as it should be, and do all necessary post-op work."

They all nodded and the room fell back into relative silence, the only sounds around them being the distant white noise of medical happenings down every hallway and through every door.

"I think I'll head to the cafeteria to get some tea," Ducky then said, putting his hands on his knees to stand up.

"I'll join you," Victoria offered, rising to leave with the ME. When they'd gone out together, the three agents turned to each other.

"He will be fine, Tony," Ziva said, catching DiNozzo's weary, quiet sigh. "And this was not your fault."

"You know what?" DiNozzo said, almost letting out a few breathless laughs. He wasn't angry, but that self-hating, falsely-joking tone he'd been known to throw around when he was upset was seeping from his voice. "You're totally right. It wasn't my fault. But I didn't exactly make things better, either."

Gibbs leaned over and gave a medium-strength slap upside his agent's head to snap him out of his spiral.

"Thank you, Boss."

"You got him to the hospital. That is literally all you could have done. Especially since he had an episode while holding a loaded gun, and considering he is so much stronger than us. He could have hurt you or himself but you made sure he didn't," Ziva insisted.

This suddenly reminded the senior agent of the bruises that were forming on his hurt wrist, and he crossed his arms even tighter without thinking about it.

After a moment, Tony sighed and nodded. It did make him feel better to have Ziva remind him of the obvious, if only because he was too good at forgetting it in these situations.

Ducky and Victoria returned in due time, each carrying drinks for everyone. The doctor gave out coffees to Gibbs and Ziva, took his own tea, and threw away the cardboard carrying container he'd used to bring them. Victoria came to stand in front of Tony, who was staring into space, his head tilted down towards his shoes, and held a coffee in his line of sight. DiNozzo blinked at it before realizing that the cup was for him, and he straightened up to take it, grateful at the gesture.

"What happened to your wrist?" she immediately noticed his bruised arm and sat next to him to examine it, all the while being conscious of giving him personal space. She never noticed that she did this, but after so long of avoiding touch from people, and assuming that humans who knew what she was didn't want _her_ to touch _them,_ it was an unconscious habit.

Damn it. There went his intention of keeping it a secret.

"Oh, uh, he grabbed my wrist while I was trying to put pressure on the wound. He was still out of it at that time.

"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly, not being able to completely hide the concern in her voice.

"Nah, just a bit sore," he said, trying to ease her worries, but Ducky leaned over, one hand stretched out. At this silent request, Tony hesitantly put his hand in the medical examiner's, and tried not to wince at the prodding his arm was suddenly enduring.

"Nothing feels broken," came the diagnosis. "But I'd like to wrap that once we get back to the office, in case it's sprained."

DiNozzo really didn't want to agree, but knew it would save him a lot of stress in trying to talk his way out of it, and so nodded and sipped his coffee.

It seemed like they'd been sitting around forever, and yet also for barely any time at all, when a tall, rather handsome doctor made an appearance in the waiting room. Everyone stood upon his entrance, eager to get any updates they could.

"I'm Dr. Steven Nacht. I'm assuming you're with Agent McGee?" he asked, then noticed the one person there who wasn't an NCIS employee and his question was automatically answered. "Ah, Victoria."

The young woman went up to him and gave a hug as her greeting.

"Steve, thank you so much for taking care of Tim. I knew you'd come through for us. How is he?"

Dr. Nacht looked up at the rest of the questioning looks and nodded. "He's going to be fine. The bullet did clip through his shoulder, but it was a very lucky shot for him. It only went and damaged soft tissue- or, the muscles, ligaments, etc. Bullet fragments and debris can get left behind, especially when a person as physically strong as he is gets hit. He should make a full recovery within a couple of weeks, and can be back to desk work by the end of the week, since he's going to heal just a tiny bit faster than the average patient."

Even though they'd all been fairly certain there was no cause for worry, this news made all five sets of shoulders relax.

"Can we see him?" Gibbs asked.

"I figured you would want to right away, so I waited until he was stable to come get you all. He's unconscious right now, although he should be waking up soon."

…..

About an hour later, McGee opened his eyes and the first thing he registered was how numb and heavy he felt, especially his shoulder.

The second thing he noticed was the circle of loved ones that had congregated around his bed.

"Hey there, McGee," Tony said, his voice low but his spirits a much higher than they had been.

"Hey…." Tim replied, his own voice thick. Everyone else was fine, but he was in the hospital for some reason? "What happened?"

"You got shot. Again," DiNozzo informed his friend for the second time that day.

"It's funny, this is more or less how I met you last year," Victoria said softly, referencing how she had helped stitch McGee up when he'd been shot in Italy, which had led to the whole revelation of his flightling nature in the first place.

His eyelids were heavy so he allowed himself to close them again, but he remained awake and grinned a little.

"Do I get any more new powers this time?"

Everyone laughed quietly. "Probably not," Ziva replied. "But you do have your memory this time."

"That's true. I don't remember too much about getting shot, though," he said, and when no one replied right away, McGee opened his eyes again to see several hesitant looks.

"What?"

The team, with Tony in the lead, explained what had happened and Tim listened in dismay.

"I don't remember that," the junior agent said. "The last thing I remember is looking at the van in the warehouse."

"That's most likely because of the anesthesia than anything else," Ducky assured him in an attempt to make sure he knew it wasn't a fragile mental state that caused this lack of memory.

McGee nodded at this information when a new thought suddenly dawned on him. "I took a picture of the van's license plate. It's on my phone. We can trace that."

Everyone's expressions lit up at this.

"Good work, McGee," his boss nodded with a small smile.

Tim felt a bit comforted that, at the least, a possible lead came out of this mayhem. It was then that he noticed what Tony was wearing.

"Why do you have scrubs on? And what happened to your wrist?" he murmured, his eyes narrowed as he focused in on DiNozzo, his eyesight taking a moment to cooperate. He was feeling more and more tired with every second.

"Somebody bled all over my work shirt," the older man quipped.

"Sorry 'bout that," McGee murmured, laying his head back on his pillow.

"Don't apologize, Tim. Just promise you're gonna stop getting almost-killed. It's getting old."

The junior agent's eyes drifted shut again, although a small smile came to his lips. "I thought I'd left that bad habit behind me in Italy," he joked.

This was the last thing he managed to express before he drifted back into sleep, not realizing that Tony hadn't answered his question about his bruised arm. Nor did he realize that the mystery shooter was not only still out there, but had almost certainly seen his wings. In his exhaustion it didn't even occur to him that there were fairly serious implications his flashback had brought forth that he would have to consider later. None of this mattered at that moment, because his team was safe, he was okay, and he was really, _really_ tired. With all of this fading into the haze of his mind, McGee gave over to the sleep that, thanks to the medication, was the first full, uninterrupted sleep he'd had in a while.


	15. Chapter 14

As his doctor had said, McGee healed a bit faster than the average patient. Still, the next few days he was required to stay at home, and this, in his opinion, was less than ideal. Victoria came over each day to check up on him and discuss things with him- and to make sure he didn't try and fly or do anything else that could impede his healing process. The first day home he was in a sort of sluggish haze from the painkillers he'd been given. By the second day, he was pacing around his apartment, arms stiff against his body to refrain from jostling his wounded shoulder. He knew he needed to rest, but after stumbling across the recent developments in their case, which had remained maddeningly stagnant before, he couldn't just relax. It's worth noting that everyone except Tim was acutely aware that his mind was the thing that truly needed the most recovery, but while he made sure to dutifully take his pain meds and change his bandages and be careful of his shoulder, his brain never stopped churning out theories and possibilities for leads and suspects. He began calling and texting the rest of the team for constant updates, to the point where Gibbs threatened to have Victoria go over to McGee's place and take his phone away.

"If you keep harassing your own team, they're actually going to make me babysit you in full-time shifts," Victoria said as she entered his home on his third day of leave.

"You know I'm older than you, right? And this isn't the first time I've been shot," McGee said as she put down her purse and went to inspect his shoulder wrap.

"Yes. But I helped fix you up the last time you got yourself shot, and I've saved your butt multiple times since then. I've got protective custody over you. Which means you do what I say."

Tim chuckled at her soft threats and reprimands and she gave him a small smile before stepping away from his injured shoulder. "Seriously, though. Ziva told me you've texted her and Tony multiple times just this morning. Have you even eaten breakfast or lunch?"

"Breakfast, not lunch. And I can't. I can't just sit around while this is going on. Whoever it is who's killing all of these flightlings, they're just out there looking for another victim right now."

"He'll be stopped, Tim. In the meantime, you need to relax. A one-track mind isn't really healthy. And it's not like you to be so hyper focused on something without dealing with it properly."

Damn it, she'd taken the conversation to a place he hadn't been expecting to visit just yet. Yes, he knew that there was no way he was going to get through the week and go back to work without being confronted with what happened. But truthfully? He didn't have an answer for it. He knew it wasn't good that he'd had such an episode- and out in the field, on duty no less. Hey, he'd been shot and caught in a big mess of chains; is it so surprising that it would trigger such a response, given all that he'd been through? Even the most mentally sound, healthy person would react in such a way. And he'd always been very mentally sound. To him, it seemed like an isolated incident, and since it hadn't affected him or his work in any other way (which, though he believed it, was a blatant lie to himself) he didn't feel it was a cause for concern yet.

But Victoria wasn't having it.

"Ziva told me she and Tony came by to visit you yesterday evening," she said. "And that you found out how Tony's arm got hurt."

This did hit a chord. He'd been assured that nothing was broken, that everyone knew it was an accident, that there was nothing to forgive….still, he could barely contain his self-horror even after they'd left, the image of his best friend's arm badly bruised and basically sprained just because he'd grabbed it a little too hard. He'd been out of it, been out of control, grabbed DiNozzo's arm, and he could have broken it. No, he didn't, but there was a creeping, ugly voice in the back of his mind that reminded him that if it hadn't been broken, it was lucky. Because Tim hadn't had an ounce of self-awareness in the moment to temper his strength. God knows what he could have done.

These moments when he accidentally hurt something or someone with him abilities was always hard for him- it preyed on those feelings of self-fear that he'd felt since Italy. Yes, that was partially because he hated not knowing things, and was conscious that there was still so much about flightlings he didn't know.

"Tim," his friend called him back to earth. He looked at her, and they both sighed.

"It's normal that you acted the way you did. You don't need to be guilty, or afraid, or anything of the sort," Victoria continued, as if she'd read his mind. She'd always been good at that. "But that doesn't mean you should ignore or put off dealing with it. What if I found a therapist in the area that caters to us? Or what if you just talked to Ducky about it? He's a doctor…or, why not talk to me? I know what you've been through. I understand. I have nightmares, I get jumpy too…I don't mind listening to you...you know that, right?"

In all of his preoccupation with walling off his own trauma, he'd completely forgotten that Victoria experienced pretty much the same things he had. Guilt immediately rushed in and washed out all of his other feelings.

"Victoria…"

"No, no," she said quickly, hearing in his voice where he was going with this. "That's not where I wanted to bring this. I'm just saying we both have these problems. I'd argue yours are a bit more pressing because of your recent family-related decision and your line of work," she held up her hands to stop him when he opened his mouth to protest this last assertion. "I know I've been a bit of a hypocrite about this, but you almost got yourself killed and I'll be damned if you actually have anything happen to you. But either way, you know I'm right. You should…we should both deal with this. Properly."

McGee paused, unsure of what to say. Yes, he knew she was right. However, he still felt that it wasn't a good time to truly "deal" with things in the way everyone wanted him to. Not when there was possibly a serial killer out there targeting flightlings. Not when lives were at stake. Not when he'd hurt his best friend and not in the middle of his own research to examine his DNA and determine where flightling hunting instinct came from and not while he was in doubt about his own self control and general goodness…..

Victoria could see that the logic was winning over his own logical side, which was of course his most dominant personality trait (save perhaps his general loyalty and kindness for his loved ones), but that there were still various hesitations holding him back. So she decided to go a different route to get through to him.

"Do you ever get homesick?" she asked. "I mean, I know this is your real home. But for Valero Notte. For the Clark house. For….how things were? You know what I mean?"

He did. Honestly, he loved his life now; he had the best of both worlds- his flightling world and his NCIS world blended and peaceful and _happy_. But those weird few months between waking up as a flightling and being caught up in a secret blood war had been something else. It almost didn't seem right to consider it the best time of his life up until that point because it was a totally separate life. He hadn't had his memory or any of the inhibitions or insecurities that came with it. He didn't miss anyone in particular or anything about his old life simply because he couldn't remember a moment of it. He found himself living in the most beautiful home in a gorgeous city in an ancient country and with new friends who loved him and new powers and resources to enjoy _everything_. Flying over the water, walking through stone-walled alleys, learning a new language, seeing the stars in this tiny place that didn't suffer from light pollution…..it was a misty, unreal, enchanted time and place almost removed entirely from reality. Again, now that he had his memory back he couldn't bear to live there and never have his true home or his team or his work, but still, he knew what Victoria meant. It was a completely different life. Like he'd been thinking a couple weeks prior: Valero Notte was misty, Washington D.C. was smoky. It didn't make sense because the city wasn't particularly inflicted with smog or anything, but it was the closest he could get to putting the contrast into words. It was a different life, and while he would always choose his current life, in that weird, alternate life he hadn't had to make a choice at all.

"Yeah. I do miss it sometimes," he said. "You do, too."

It wasn't a question, but she nodded. They'd moved from his foyer area to his couch and she looked towards his windows and stared out at nothing. She wasn't like McGee- years of her life had been spent that way. It was her real life, not a haunted alternate world. And it wasn't ever going to be exactly the same as it had been. That didn't mean it wasn't beautiful and couldn't be happy, but what we tend to forget is that grief can be for a past reality too; not just for past loved ones. That was her own struggle, and while he'd always been somewhat conscious of it, it had never been so sharply in focus for him. Once again, guilt seeped in, and once again, her words waved it away.

"I do. But that's not the point. It was changed the moment Apollo carried your unconscious, bloody mess of a self into the main hall and told me to get the first aid kit before I even knew what had happened. And yeah, I gotta say, some of the experiences have _sucked_ since then," she said this with a bit of humor at the understatement, "but now not only can I not go back to it, I don't want to. I mean, I'd definitely go back and save Apollo if I could. And I'd probably try to take out at least _some_ of that torture in Venice….but the rest? I wouldn't change. I've got you now, and….yeah, I've got your friends, who are pretty fantastic even if they tried to kill me the first time we met. I'm saying this because if you block all of your issues away, you're not really going to experience this new amazing life you've built for yourself here. But you're definitely not going back to how it was before, so if you don't get your brain out this mess it's making for itself you'll just be caught in that awful hell of a time in between. And like I said, I'm working on getting myself there, but it would be nice if you did, too."

She would have said more, but was cut off when Tim pulled her into a strong hug. It was a one-armed embrace because of his bad shoulder, but his wings also unfolded and wrapped around them. This brought a bit of tears to Victoria's eyes, but that wasn't a bad thing.

After this slightly emotional discussion, they relaxed and shifted back into their normal, happy, casual, sibling-like dynamic. When she was satisfied with McGee's physical and mental health, at least in the moment, Victoria took her leave. She knew that one talk wasn't going to fix Tim (or fix her own issues), but she hoped that she'd at least given him something to think about to slow the downward path his mind had been digging through those past few weeks. McGee, for his part, did relax a bit, their talk having been cathartic and easing him of some of his stressors for the time being. Yes, his brain was still going a mile a minute concerning the murder cases, but his own guilt and self-doubt had eased. For the day, anyway.

He decided to take his friend's advice and try and focus on something other than the case. So he laid on his couch and flipped through his Darwin book on flightlings for a while, to try and learn more from the pages he'd already combed through multiple times. Victoria (and his team) probably wouldn't have been pleased to know that his "break" from investigation was more research on flightlings, but there was no way he was going to be able to relax enough to watch TV or read something fictional or even play an RPG or run programs on his large computer set-up, despite the fact that these were his usual ways to unwind.

About an hour in, his phone buzzed and he saw that Penny had texted him. McGee grimaced when he realized that he hadn't spoken to his grandmother in a couple days, so she had no idea of his injuries. Which meant she was going to be _pissed off_ that she'd been left out of the loop. Already cringing, he called his grandmother, prepared to invite her over and face the inevitable head-on.

…...

Penny had expected that her grandson would be calling just to say hi and maybe ask how Sarah was doing. She did _not_ expect that he'd admit that he'd been shot and was now not allowed at work until he healed a bit more. The panic she immediately felt was undercut by the fact that he'd already gone to the hospital and had been home for a couple days by this time. McGee was right in that she quickly became angry when she realized that no one had called her to even mention that her grandson could have died- again, so soon after he'd come back into her life. So she quickly hung up with a parting, "I'll be right over."

In a little over an hour (which was very impressive given the D.C. traffic,) Penny stepped into Tim's apartment and started with the reprimands right away.

"No one on your team thought to call me? To let me know what had happened to you? And you've been home for days now without thinking to call me even _once_?"

"Penny, Penny- I'm sorry. I am. The team was worried about me but I was never going to die from this wound. Look at it- see? It didn't hit anything even remotely critical. I was on pain killers and pretty hazy that day and the day after so I really wasn't aware of much. Yesterday I kind of got busy trying to work from home and everything else sort of slipped my mind. It shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

At this rambling, explanatory apology, his grandmother softened. She gently went to hug him, careful not to nudge his injured shoulder. "I could have lost you again."

"I promise you wouldn't. And you won't."

"Still, let's sit. Tell me what happened."

So McGee went over a loose outline of the details of that day- how they'd been investigating, stumbled upon the van they'd been looking for, gave chase, and Tim got shot. He suggested that this caused a shock-related panic response instead of a true flashback, but his grandmother could see that it was more than he made it out to be. Still, she didn't press as much as she wanted to. Instead, she asked about how he'd been taking care of himself since then, which eventually evolved into some lighthearted talk about how McGee's life had been while he was in Italy. After a while, Penny was quiet for a moment before she spoke again.

"That girl, Victoria. You said she was living in the area?"

"Yeah."

"…Could I meet her? I didn't get to talk to her when we were all at your office, and I'd like to thank her for all she's done. It sounds like without her and that man…"

"Apollo."

"Without them, it sounds like I would have lost you for good."

"Several times over. And I think she'd like to meet you too," he assured Penny. "She's… in need of some more friends right now. I mean, she's got friends all over the world, but as far as family goes… I'm kind of the closest thing she's got," McGee frowned, trying not to remind himself once again of how great Victoria's life had been before he'd shown up, bringing chaos and danger with him.

"I'd love to have another secret grandchild," Penny said warmly.

"Another secret-?"

"Well I can't really tell anyone about you, so you've sort of become my secret grandchild now," she explained. "I'll just add another."

McGee's frown deepened from the guilt this remark unintentionally brought. "I'm…I'm so, so sorry, Penny. I'm the worst. You don't deserve this. You shouldn't have to pretend I don't exist."

"No, Sweetheart," she reached over and turned his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Don't apologize. You didn't ask to be put in this situation. None of this is your fault. And you know what? I was upset at first, but….I think you've made the right decision. Your sister is going to be so much better off than she was with the money you gave her, and even though I know she and your parents would prefer you to be alive over money any day… I think you saved yourself a lot of heartbreak, doing what you did."

Tim's eyebrows quirked up in surprise at hearing this, to which she sighed and continued. "I didn't say I was happy about it. But if this pretending means I get to keep seeing you and keep our family relatively peaceful and happy to the best of our ability….well, that's much better than some alternatives I can think of."

He opened his mouth to refute her claims, but she kept going. "And you're not the worst. Don't _ever_ let me hear you say that again. You are so good. I'm proud to have you as my grandson. Whether you're 100% human or not…. The 'not' part just makes you cooler," she teased.

For the first time since she'd started talking, a spark came to her grandson's eyes. It was a little childish, Tim thought, that he needed so badly for his grandmother to tell him he was a good person. As though he were 10 years old again. But despite the perceived infantility, it worked a little bit. A small chuckle sounded from the back of his throat.

That was two very personal conversations in one day. Geez. Tim cleared his throat and reached up with his good arm to scratch the back of his neck.

"So, tell me more about this case," Penny redirected, and he obliged. He described the treatment their victims had endured, the fact that they were both flightlings…. it was a lot, and while that was plain for everyone to see, he was all the more reminded of it when explaining the details out loud to someone who was new to this information.

"Well…I don't know what to say, except that you need to be so, _so_ careful," Penny asserted.

"I will. Trust me, I want this guy to stop what he's doing right now."

"It sounds like you're going to need to talk to more flightlings in the area to get to the bottom of this, too," she mused.

"We were thinking that. Victoria's been doing some digging for us. Still…I don't know how much this person has access to, or what he can figure out. Grandpa was a flightling in the military, which may be suggested in some old medical records…"

"And you're worried about the rest of the family because of it."

"Yeah."

"Well, I do doubt that anyone set on hunting flightlings would waste their time tracing humans who are related to a deceased flightling man, but I'll take extra care to ask after your father and sister until further notice."

"Thank you," Tim breathed, a bit of weight off his shoulders. "What about you?"

"I'm actually going on another trip- this time to California for a week for a sort of conference. An environmental activist friend of mine asked me to attend with her. It's a panel about water pollution in the state and there might end up being a protest."

"So of course you have to be there," Tim grinned.

"That's right," Penny agreed, proudly.

"Text me when you get there safely. And I don't know where we'll be on this case by then, but until we're sure this killer is taken care of, I'll fly to you whenever you want to meet. That way if there is any danger, it at least can't follow our cars."

This was a bit paranoid, yes, but there was no way Tim was putting his grandmother in danger, and the realization that someone out there probably saw his wings and was running free- and that this person just might be the killer- it was a lot to deal with. He was admittedly a bit spooked, mostly because he was stuck at home for at least another day. Still, Penny agreed to the precaution. From here, McGee had one more thing to ask of his grandmother.

"So, I know we sort of talked about it before, but I really want to know everything about our family history. How many flightlings have there been from our family? Do we know if any of them killed humans? And if so, did any have any particularly advanced powers because of it? Because the general consensus seems to be that souls make us more powerful, but I really can't get a grip on figuring out the science behind it."

Penny paused. She knew a bit about her late husband's heritage, but not enough to tell the full story. And some of what she did know, she was fairly certain Tim didn't need to hear just now.

"I don't know if I'd be able to tell everything from memory, sweetheart," she hedged. "But I do know some of your grandfather's old documents and books have some family records. When I get back from California, I'll go rummage through the attic for it."

This made her grandson brighten considerably, and she accepted his thanks, secretly hoping that any documents she did find eased his concerns, and that her memory was faulty in this one area of history; that all she _thought_ she remembered might not be as unpleasant in reality.


	16. Chapter 15

**(Meanwhile)**

In the few days that McGee was stuck at home, the rest of the team jumped headfirst back into their investigation. Tim having been able to get a picture of the van's license plate was a huge help, as was the lead that Ziva had picked up with Victoria at the Naval Academy; now, for the first time in what felt like forever, they actually had something to go on.

That being said, by noon on the third day that the junior agent was on leave, the team was very much done with the incessant texts he sent with ideas and requests for updates.

"I swear, if McGeek doesn't stop texting me, I'm gonna block his number," Tony trailed off on his empty threat.

"I will text Victoria and ask her to take his phone when she checks up on him tomorrow," Ziva said.

"...You're texting Victoria now?" Tony asked, curious.

"Why not? She is our friend and she has been very helpful in this investigation."

"I just never thought of you as the kind to text your friends. For social reasons, at least," DiNozzo half-joked, but he paid for the quip when his partner looked up at him from her phone with a challenging glare.

"And why not?"

Tony knew that any comment on Ziva's social life (or apparent lack thereof,) especially when it came to having female friends, would end very poorly for him, but luckily she changed the subject herself.

"I don't know if my asking her to pass a threat along to McGee counts as a social text, anyway," she said.

Their banter was cut off when Gibbs entered the bullpen. "Abby's finished running the plates. Come on."

The two agents dutifully followed their boss to the forensic lab, where their resident goth greeted them and Jethro handed her a large Caf-Pow!, which earned her visitors a big smile.

"Thanks, Gibbs!"

"What've you got for us, Abs?"

"Well first of all, I'm sorry it took so long. These particular plates were hard to find because whoever had the van last didn't renew their registration after it expired, so I had to dig a little. But I found the most recent owner on record."

With a few clicks, a license came up on the screen. "The van belonged to a Carl Foster for quite a few years. But he didn't renew his registration when it expired about four months ago. And here's why- it was reported stolen the month before the registration expired."

"Maybe Foster could tell us more about when and where the van was stolen," Tony said.

"Worth a shot," Gibbs agreed after a moment's thought. "You two go."

"In the meantime, Abby," Ziva began. "Could you possibly figure out how to access Navy medical records or find out how to determine who all has access to these records?"

"Uh….I can definitely try," the forensic tech said, hesitant. "But I gotta warn you, that's gonna require a lot of hacking. Not exactly legal. At all, actually. Don't get me wrong, I'm good, but McGee is way better at stuff like this."

"See what you can do, he should be back on desk duty in the next couple days and can take over from there," Gibbs requested.

"If he doesn't go crazy from boredom and fight his way past security before then," DiNozzo added on their way out.

…..

As Carl Foster's license was easily accessed, Abby was able to provide the man's address as well, although she couldn't find any phone number. Which meant that Ziva and Tony were heading unannounced to a stranger's home to ask after his van that had been stolen months ago.

Hey, a lead's a lead.

When they parked in front of the pleasant looking and well-kept, if somewhat small, house, Tony rang the doorbell which immediately provoked a loud chorus of barks on the other side of the front door. DiNozzo jumped back slightly at the suddenness of the noise, which made Ziva smirk.

From somewhere in the house the NCIS agents could hear a deep voice shout "shut up!" in response to the barking. The voice got closer, and more orders of "get back, you maniacs," and "be quiet" were heard before the door unlocked and a rather large, burly man appeared. He was in gray slacks and an undershirt, and this, along with his suspicious expression and five o'clock shadow did not suggest that this individual would be particularly pleasant or cooperative. This in turn made the agents tense a bit, ready for indignation at this intrusion.

Their suspicions were negated a little when the man asked, "Can I help you?"

"We're sorry to bother you, sir, but are you Carl Foster?"

"…Yes. Who are you?"

Two badges were flashed. "I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo and this is Special Agent Ziva David, we're from NCIS. We're here to ask about the van you reported missing a few months ago."

Mr. Foster's eyes widened in surprise. "NCIS, like the Navy Cops? Did you guys find the van?"

"Well, sort of. Could we talk about this inside?"

"Oh sure! Come on in."

Foster opened the door and allowed the agents to step inside. There they saw the source of all the barking: four large mixed-breed dogs were sitting in the living room, obediently waiting for permission to approach the visitors.

"Sorry about how I answered the door," Carl said. "These guys make a lot of noise but they're sweet. And I just wasn't expecting anyone so I thought you might be selling something."

"No problem," Tony said, looking nervously the four dogs still staring at them. The senior agent was in no way afraid of dogs, and these pets' tails were wagging, their mouths open in happy expressions. But that barking, and the sense he got that all four animals wanted to rush at him, set him just a bit on edge.

"Come on guys, they didn't come to see you. Lay down," their owner said, and they each did as they were told.

"They are very well trained," Ziva complimented.

"Thanks. Sorry if they scared ya," Carl said, noting Tony's slightly nervous expression.

"Trust me, sir. These are the nicest dogs I've ever met on the job," the senior agent replied.

"So, what exactly can I do for NCIS?" Foster asked.

"We wanted to ask about the van you reported missing because we are fairly certain it's been used in at least two murders."

"Wow….ah geez, really? I can't believe it," their host said, shocked. "I thought whoever took it was probably some common thug looking for a ride. What makes you think it's my van?"

"The license plates we've caught on video registered as expired, and we saw that you were the last owner."

"Yeah, it was used for deliveries for our business. My wife and I owned a floral shop in Georgetown."

The agents were very surprised that they were talking to a florist, given the man's rough and tough appearance. He smiled at their momentary confusion. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

"So," Tony cleared his throat. "You and your wife owned a flower shop, and the van was used for deliveries...?"

"Yeah. We had five vans, actually. We did big events, weddings and galas and arrangements for office buildings….it was a private business but we ran a big operation. We decided at the end of the past year to sell our location in Georgetown and run the shop out of our house. We still do some weddings and cater to our loyal, recurring clients, but we mostly do personal arrangements now. We got a greenhouse out back and the store we sell from is the place next door."

DiNozzo and Ziva looked out the living room window to notice the cute little shop. A white van, identical in make and model to the stolen van sat in the gravel driveway between the two buildings. An ornately painted logo for the business was printed onto the side of the vehicle.

"What happened to the other vans you had?" Ziva asked.

"Two we kept and had re-done. That one there is one of 'em, and my wife has the other right now, she's out making a delivery. We decided to sell the other three. Two actually got sold legitimately, and the third one was stolen out of our lot behind the Georgetown store. The creep broke into the shop and stole the keys and everything."

"And that is the one that we are looking at as being used," Ziva said.

"Yeah, we called the cops, but they never found anything. After all this time we just considered it a loss, but we didn't need to replace it since we semi-retired. Why would a thief keep the old plates on it, though?"

"If they follow all traffic laws, they're less likely to be pulled over with the plates on. They were most likely banking on never getting pulled over by police. If they had, they'd have been caught," Tony said. "If they were smart they'd've put non-contrabanded plates on, but if this person really is our killer, he probably only uses it for the actual acts. We have reason to suspect he keeps it out of sight during the day."

"Mr. Foster, who was the last person to drive the van?" Ziva asked.

"I think that'd be my son, Joey. He helps run the shop when he's off of school. We used to have a few delivery guys and girls, but we only keep on Joey and his girlfriend to make deliveries now. But Joe didn't see anything suspicious that day, and everyone who drove one of the vans was required to hand over the keys at the end of their shift- we kept the keys in the back room of the shop; that's where they got stolen from that night after we'd locked up and left."

"Do you have any idea of anyone who might have stolen the van? Anyone who expressed interest in it? Anyone who came to look at it and said they'd think about it?"

"There were a few, actually. I don't know if any of them woulda stolen it, but I think I still have a list of names and phone numbers somewhere. Give me a second…."

Carl went off into one of the back rooms of the house, while the agents waited. Ziva reached over and began to pet the dog closest to her on the floor, who stood and leaned into her touch.

"Here ya go," the florist said when he returned. "I printed it off for you. I gave this to the police, but they didn't find anything. Still, they had me keep it just in case they needed anything else later. I have the case number they gave me, too."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Foster," Tony said as the two agents stood to take their leave.

"No, thank you for all you guys do. Good luck catching the guy. You can call the shop and ask for me if you need anything else."

…

A few hours later, the two agents were back at their desks, each deep into researching after the stolen van lead. DiNozzo had fought through quite a bit of red tape to get _anyone_ in the county's police department to give him the information from the case he needed. He had repeated the case number so many times he was sure he'd be saying it out in his sleep. Years of experience told him how prickly local police could get when working with federal agents, so he had to work hard not to get impatient and give anyone he spoke to a reason to make things difficult for him. Finally, after what felt like ages of cajoling and waiting on hold and asking for details of the case, he hung up his desk phone.

"Sussex County PD responded to the call, dusted for fingerprints, everything. Never found anything worth following, and no one ever reported seeing or pulling over the missing van. They did get security video of the person stealing it- it wasn't clear enough for them to get any suspects identified, but it can't hurt for us to look at it, right? They're also sending over some of the case notes with alibis for the people on the list of interested buyers."

"I am glad for that, because I can find almost nothing on any of these names," Ziva said, gesturing to her computer. "Seven names on the list, and nothing yet that will help us. Two of these people didn't even leave a first name, and I suspect this one here is a fake name."

"That doesn't sound great…" Abby's voice stirred them from their conversation and they looked up to see the goth standing at the edge of the bullpen.

"Hey Abs, what're you doing up here?"

"I came to talk to you guys, but now I'm thinking I should've stayed downstairs because I'm only bringing more bad news with me," she replied, a slightly guilty look on her face.

"What's the bad news?"

"Ok, well…I couldn't directly access restricted medical records. I feel kinda hinky about doing that anyway because they're private, but I did try and I just couldn't get past the firewalls they have protecting everything. I'm sorry, guys. McGee's gonna have to do it."

"That's okay, Abby. Thank you for trying," Ziva said.

"Wait! That's not everything. I have slightly better news, too! Ducky was able to get access to Seamus Moore and Michael Coleman's personal medical records, so he can look for anything you need him to in those files. Also, I did some digging around to find out who exactly has access to medical records and private information to see if we couldn't get any suspects that way...And there's a few thousand medical personnel in the entire service who could reasonably have access to that information."

"So, we still have almost nothing," Tony said, dejected.

"Hold on! I thought about it, and realized that in the entire database of medical information, not all personnel is going to have access to everyone in the Navy's records. And Michael Coleman wasn't even in the Navy- his dad was, right? So I assumed that if anyone used the records to find suspects, they would have had to either found Michael Coleman's dad's file, and then made the guess that Michael was a flightling, or more likely, they would have had to have Michael's information directly."

"But if Michael wasn't ever enlisted, why would we be able to access his personal records through the Navy?" Ziva asked.

"Because I looked up records of where the Colemans have lived over the years, and they've been on multiple Navy bases. Michael attended a few base schools growing up, _and_ saw pediatricians on-base, which means his medical information would be _somewhere_ in the Navy's secure system. And with just the right amount of hacking, you guys will probably be able to tell who the last person to pull and view those records was."

"That's…not bad, Abby," DiNozzo said, impressed. "I honestly didn't think of that."

"Oh please, that's my job!" the goth said brightly. "Let me know if you guys need anything else."

As the forensic tech left in the direction of her lab, Tony checked his email and gave a small sound of triumph.

"I got the case information from Sussex PD."

"Let's see the list of suspects and their alibis," Ziva said eagerly, and the senior agent projected his desktop onto the flatscreen.

"Look's like the first four were confirmed to be in public places with witnesses at the time of the break-in….this one was out of town that day….only the last two here didn't have solid alibis."

"This one, who only left his first name and last initial," Ziva said, pointing to the first of the two names, "I called his number but it was no longer in service. And the second man did not answer either. I wonder why the police did not look further into these names if the others all had good alibis and these two did not."

"Updates," Gibbs asked as he strolled into the bullpen.

"We're just about to play the footage of the van being stolen."

Tony clicked on the video icon that opened up a segment of the flower shop's security camera. This particular camera was pointed towards the back door and overlooked the fenced-in lot that held the delivery vans. For a few moments, the lit-up space was empty and still; the timestamp on the footage indicated that this video was taped just after midnight.

Suddenly, a blurry figure appeared on the very edge of the screen. One leg swung into view, and it became apparent that the figure was climbing the fence. After a moment, the thief came into full view of the camera.

"Ok, there's our guy," Tony said, as he, Gibbs and Ziva stared at the screen. The individual was wearing baggy sweatpants and a large hooded sweatshirt that covered their head, so that none of their features could be seen. The video was in black and white, so literally nothing could be gleaned about their suspect yet.

The figure went over to the back door of the shop and pulled out what appeared to be a lock picking kit. They bent over and got to work with gloved hands, and after a few moments, they seemed to achieve their goal, standing up straight and returning the tools to their pocket.

The hooded person then reached out and opened the back door of the building. However they visibly jumped when they did so.

"What was that?" Ziva asked.

"Shop's alarm went off," Gibbs said of the silent footage, and the ex-Mossad agent nodded in understanding.

The fuzzy image showed the burglar quickly dart into the store's back office, and a few moments later they emerged with a gate remote and a pair of car keys. In their rush, they turned to shut the door behind them, and their hood fell back away from their head. A long ponytail could be seen and the figure then turned and yanked the hood back up, though not before the video camera got a blurry glimpse of the momentarily exposed face. The team watched in surprised silence

"So that's why those two men weren't suspected," Tony finally said.

"The person who stole the van was a woman," Ziva finished for her partner.

DiNozzo glanced back at his computer for a moment. "Report says that no one could enhance the picture enough for facial recognition, and neither the Fosters or any of their employees recognized her. She's not anyone from the list."

The agents watched as the woman frantically fiddled with the keys to determine which van she had access to. When one of the vehicles beeped in response, she went for that one, used the remote to open the gate, and sped out of the lot before the police could arrive. A few moments after she left, the gate slid shut automatically.

"Tony," Ziva said after a minute, her tone slow and thoughtful as she stared into space. "You said that you and McGee did not get a look at the person's face in the warehouse, yes?"

"Yeah, we saw their eyes but they had on a face mask."

"They were short, yes? Short for a man?"

"Yeah, but…" DiNozzo saw exactly where she was going with this. "About average height for a woman. And I don't remember getting a look at their hair but I'm pretty sure it was tied low in the back and tucked into their shirt to keep it out the way. It could've been a man…or a woman. I'm…kind of embarrassed to say it didn't occur to me that our suspect was a woman," he admitted.

"If she is a hunter it might be more easy to find her since there're less female hunters than male out there. Then again, she might not be alone. In fact, it makes sense if she wasn't. Even one very strong human man would have trouble hunting flightlings on his own. It would make sense that two would work together. Like the three of us did before we found McGee last year," Ziva remarked.

"'Looks young to be a hunter," Gibbs added, studying the paused, unclear video footage.

"So there's at least one, but probably more suspects."

"And still no way to tell who they are."

….

That evening the air was particularly muggy, suggesting more rain might roll in later in the week. Luckily at that moment the sky was fairly clear, and while the city was too bright to make any stars visible at night, the darkness still sank deep over everything like a thick, warm blanket. It made things feel closer together, made the sky seem so much further away than usual, made Victoria feel all the more small and all the more aching to fly. But she out on the town by herself, with several jewels of Washington D.C.'s sparkling nightlife on her itinerary, not looking to party but rather to investigate. There wasn't time for a pleasure flight tonight.

It had been well over a year since she had been to a "club" of any fashion, and while she had seen the nightlife in beautiful vibrant countries all over the place, this area was something entirely different. Maybe it was because this city was the heart of politics and it seemed odd to remember that young, exciting, non-politicians went out once the stuffed shirts went to bed.

She'd lived in the city before Apollo found her. Not this city, of course, but the point was, in a past life she had been very accustomed to this world in which she now found herself. But after years of living in Valero Notte with Apollo, this environment now felt otherworldly. It wasn't like in all those years of being a Clark she had never been to any metropolitan area- it was only a short flight to Venice, a short train or plane ride to every major city in Europe. But when your truest and happiest home was made of stone and built upon a thousand years' worth of history, any newer and more modern home, however temporary or permanent, came with a bit of a re-adjustment period. Still, as homesick as she got at night, when she wanted to fly and realized she couldn't stray too far or too high at the risk of being shot out of the air…as much as the nightmares bothered her when she in her new apartment, alone…Victoria did enjoy the change of scenery. See, her whole life for the past year had been recovery and cleaning up messes and settling the affairs of the only parental-figure she'd ever had. Now she was out on her own for the first time in years and the sheer amount of possibilities this afforded her were virtually endless. She was definitely busy at the moment, looking after Tim and helping the NCIS agents solve a particularly difficult case, but this in and of itself was an important cause with flightling and human lives in the balance, and she'd resolved to help in any way she could.

Speaking of which, her taxi had almost made it to their destination and Victoria glanced at the address saved in her phone to make sure she had it correct.

The place in question was just a block west of 19th Street, and while addresses didn't mean much of anything to her yet, she'd been told that this was as good a location to start as any when looking for places where flightlings gathered. This club was recommended to her by the kindly Dr. Bartel's nephew, who through a quick phone call had been able to list off a handful of sites he knew where others like them congregated for a good time. The thing was, Dr. Bartel's nephew was a man half a decade younger than Victoria, so these mentioned locales were all nightclubs. Specifically, the kind of clubs to attract the "more hip" (wealthier) of D.C.'s college students, congressional aides, and children of diplomats.

She was by no means too old for these clubs, and it wasn't as though she were _incapable_ of having that kind of fun; in fact, she'd argue that flightling parties of this nature could be insanely entertaining... A big sweaty mosh-pit of bodies and wings, feats of inhuman strength…it was all certainly a sight to behold…But she wouldn't be the type to frequent these establishments, either. When she was done with the clubs, she intended to look up the few lounges, private libraries and secret dinner spots that her friend Dr. Nacht had suggested she explore. Victoria was hoping that maybe making acquaintances in these quieter, more secretive spaces might garner her access into the truly elite society clubs that have been around for centuries. Every secret society since the conception of the nation's capital has had a meeting place here; why wouldn't flightlings meet up in a similar, underground fashion? And if she could just get connections in these various flightling social circles, she was certain she'd pick up more than enough helpful information for Tim and his team.

Anyway, she studied the club in front of her which was lit in LED and neon while very attractive young adults formed a line halfway down the block to get in. She was definitely not on the list the bouncer had, and if she stood in line she wasn't getting in any time soon.

Luckily, she didn't have to.

The building was three stories, and while the first two were emanating music and lights from every window, the lighting of the third floor looked much more demure and relaxed. Unbeknownst to the young humans waiting to get in to the club, there was no getting into the third-floor VIP lounge for them. In fact, they couldn't if they tried- the third floor was not accessible from the second or first floors. You had to fly up to the third floor entrance to get in.

This had all been explained to Victoria earlier in the day, so she knew to go around the back of the massive club and in the empty, camera-less alley, she spread her wings and shot up towards the balcony that faced away from the street.

The second bouncer, this one standing on the third floor balcony, appraised Victoria as she folded away her wings and gave her a wordless nod to let her through.

She stepped into the secret section of the club and looked around. The dim lighting did nothing to hide the fact that yes, these patrons were all definitely flightlings. Winged youths sat on expensive-looking furniture, ambient lighting in ever-changing colors casting shadows across their faces and reflecting in their eyes. Not everyone had their wings out, but many did despite the fact that they were just lounging. It seemed that when they were allowed to be in public with their wings on display, many of these young adults took full advantage of the rare opportunity. A sleek bar sat against the far wall, and the heavy beat from the EDM playing in the club pulsated up through the floor. It was the perfect place for this minority of flightlings, these young people who were caught between their day-lives, what they wanted to be at night and who they were expected to be instead.

That being said, Victoria couldn't help but feel chills go up her spine as curious eyes watched her stride over to the bar. She'd been told to speak to the bartender, and that's what she intended to do. She wasn't frightened, but the young woman was suddenly acutely aware that she stuck out, that the guests at this lounge were most likely here all the time and she was a newcomer. They didn't know what kind of flightling she was, and she had no idea what kind they were. This uncertainty was not uncommon- flightlings all lived such diverse lifestyles, some much more predatory than others, and every new encounter began with a mutual sizing-up period in which each discerned just how closely the other's behavior aligned with their own. Victoria's newness to this place was a disadvantage in that she was essentially outnumbered and being sized up by various club-goers scattered throughout the room. Some looked on in interest, others glanced over like lions lazily examining potential prey before turning back to their drinks and companions. She wasn't afraid; she could hold her own and did not expect any trouble. Still, she shook off her discomfort about halfway to the bar, rolling her shoulders, pulling her chest and chin up to fake an extra inch of height. She decided to let her wings open again, holding them up but relaxing them just enough that they ever so slightly brushed against the floor: a posture of confidence and relaxation.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked as she took a seat at the counter, drawing her wings up close to her back to keep them from blocking others' paths.

"How about a sidecar?"

"Sure thing," he said, grabbing a glass and the necessary liqueurs. "You new to the area?"

"Am I that obvious?"

The man grinned a big and gave a good natured shrug. "Not in particular, we just tend to see the same group of folks come through here."

"Things do seem to be less connected here than in other places," she commented.

"Where're you from?"

"…New York," she said after a pause. It was completely true, she'd stayed at Apollo's large family home just outside of the city before coming to D.C., and for whatever reason, it felt like a wiser place to say than Italy.

"That'd explain it. People are more secret about it here."

"I can tell. I actually heard of this place from a friend of a friend."

The bartender paused and looked up at Victoria. "Are you Damien Bartel's friend?"

She blinked in surprise. "Yes, he's the one who told me about it. How did you know?"

"He mentioned someone would be coming who's new around here. I guess that's you."

"I guess it is," she agreed with her most charming smile. "Victoria Clark."

"Luke Schneider," he said, reaching over to the bar to shake her hand. This brightened her spirits considerably and immediately made Victoria feel more secure; she was already making acquaintances….maybe this evening out would be worthwhile after all. "Welcome to D.C."

"Thank you."

Luke handed over her drink, and as there was no one waiting to be served at the moment, he continued their conversation. "So Damien mentioned that you were looking to get better acquainted with flightlings around here."

"Yes. I wanted to be a little more integrated into the community, if it all possible."

"I gotta say, there's not much of a community. Like I said, people are more secretive here. More isolated. There's social circles, I guess, but I personally don't know more than the friends I've made at the club. People here have more careers in the public eye or have jobs that rely on danger enough without drawing extra attention to themselves."

"…Like government agents," Victoria suggested.

"Exactly. In fact, I heard a couple of guys attached to the Navy who're flightling got killed, recently."

"Hunted?" Victoria asked, choosing not to mention how close she was to the situation.

"That's what I've heard. So be careful out there. That's what I've been telling all our regulars."

"I will, thank you."

"In fact, if you're not familiar with the city just yet, I can always show you around," Luke offered, his tone shifting ever so slightly at the offer. He was moving towards flirting territory, seeing whether she was spoken for.

Victoria gave another small smile, this one slightly more restrained, as she steered the conversation back on track.

"Thank you, that's very nice. A friend of mine actually lives near me now, and he's been kind enough to show me around the city."

"Fair enough," the bartender said brightly. "He a flightling too?"

"Yes. Just found out a little over a year ago, actually. I'll make sure he's being careful too. Which reminds me, what's the hunter situation around here? There's not many in New York...but then there's all kinds of people in New York."

Luke chuckled. "Yeah, you know I thought hunting was old world stuff when I was a kid. But I guess if anyone isn't being, erm…discrete, then hunters might take notice. I don't keep up with that kind of thing, but some of us do get into keeping track of hunters in the area. There can't be more than a few at a time in the capital, though."

"Do you know of anyone that keeps track that I could maybe talk to?"

He gave her a curious look. "Are you that worried about it?"

Victoria took a long sip of her drink to buy time while she figured out how to answer this question as vaguely as possible. "I…well, I've just had some bad experiences with them in the past, is all," she said.

"Ah," the bartender nodded, wiping down a couple glasses. "Yeah, I hear that from time to time. I'm'a have to think of that for a little bit."

At that moment, a young man who appeared to be just a little older than Victoria (honestly, she was very used to being the youngest flightling in any room from all of her time around very old individuals in Italy. With the slowed aging process flightlings had, she couldn't tell here who was younger and who was actually much older than her) came up to the bar.

"Hey man, how're ya?"

Luke tensed a bit at the arrival of this patron, as though he knew him and was very wary and suspicious whenever he was around. "What can I get you?"

The newcomer pretended not to notice the shift he'd inspired in the bartender's demeanor. "Crown and Coke."

As Luke went about preparing the simple order, the young man looked over at Victoria. She felt his gaze linger on every inch of her even as his deep mahogany eyes settled back on her face. The man's hair was spiked slightly in places, and while it wasn't unattractive, it also wasn't clear whether this was a deliberate look or rather just its natural condition. His olive skin was clear as it could be and he was tall and lean with just the right amount of muscle. The dark pants and t-shirt were complimented by a bit of eyeliner that emphasized his eyes even further and it struck Victoria that this youthful, subtly punk look was not a common appearance among flightlings whatsoever.

She did not know why, but her mood shifted just as Luke's had. She did not trust this man.

"Hey," he said, flashing a charming smile. It wasn't an ugly look at all, in fact it was rather a good look for this man, but it didn't inspire the same reaction she felt when, say, Tony smiled that same smile at her….She put that out of her mind. No, this stranger left a knot in her chest that kept her alert and guarded.

"Hello," she said politely, taking another sip of her drink and hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn't.

"I don't think I've seen you around here before," he said, turning and leaning his side against the bar so he could face her. She kept facing straight ahead, only turning her face towards him.

"I'd say you haven't. This is my first time here," she replied, still keeping her tone polite.

"Crown and Coke," Luke interjected, placing the drink in front of the stranger and staying nearby, hoping he'd leave Victoria alone. Victoria noticed this and was grateful, although now her interest was piqued. Something about this man set them both on edge, and while Luke seemed to know him, she obviously did not but still felt unsettled.

"Thanks," the man said, cordial, still pretending not to notice the haze of tension he'd brought over with him. He picked up the glass, took a sip, and then held it up to Victoria in a gesture of cheers, before turning away and strolling towards a table closer towards the entrance.

"Sorry about him. That's Cameron," Luke said once they were alone again.

"What's his deal?" Victoria asked.

"You mean why does everyone go tense when he gets within five feet of him? Because he's decided to live the predator lifestyle. He likes to start trouble and he's not discrete about it. Everyone's always waiting for him to snap."

"Great," she deadpanned. Of course not every flightling (in fact, most flightlings) weren't the kindest of people. But the handful of acquaintances and friends she'd met in the city so far had been nothing but pleasant. The obvious human killer who'd just sized her up was the first confirmed predator she'd encountered here. "Sounds like a ton of fun."

"He is," Luke deadpanned back before grinning. "Anyway, where were we?"

"Talking about flightlings who track hunter activity in the area?"

"Ah yeah. I know of a couple metro cops who're actually flightlings. They probably know more about that."

She vaguely recalled Tim mentioning a team that was called in for flightling-related crimes in the local police force. She nodded and Luke continued.

"If you're looking for more social circles to break into, I got a buddy who works at a private dining club. Only flightlings are members. A bit of an older crowd," they both looked out over the younger, more glitzy patrons at this club, "but they're smart and more powerful in this city than the people who come here. If you poke around there you might be able to meet more people and get more information."

Victoria's face lit up in delight at this suggestion. This was exactly what she'd hoped would happen: gaining a small chain of acquaintances, each with connections and gossip that could lead to finding out who the killer the NCIS team was so intent on catching. Luke gave her his friend's name and the name of the club, which she took down eagerly. After this, she paid, including a hefty tip, and thanking her new friend earnestly.

"No problem. Come back around some time," he said, and she smiled.

"I definitely will."

The young woman turned and walked back towards the exit, now feeling much more welcome than she had when she entered. She had a few more places to hit that night, but now she also had the name of a more upscale establishment to check out the next day. If she could talk to flightling police officers and more powerful individuals within this society, she might find out if there had been other recent flightling murders or any new human hunters to investigate. At the very least, she was gaining allies.

She nodded goodbye to the bouncer at the door and walked to the edge of the balcony, spreading her wings wide and preparing to glide downwards. When she was once again on the ground, she folded her wings away, arranged her hair back into place, and started to walk down the alley back onto the main street.

"Hey," a man's voice called out to her, and Victoria tensed at the sound, turning to see the young man she'd met a few minutes before.

"Hello. Cameron, is it?" she tried to act cool, but she was not happy with the fact that this threatening figure was walking towards her in this alley. His wings were out, and she felt that he had no issue with following her onto the street with them open (which would be disastrous), and to get back to the flightling lounge she would have to walk directly past him, up close. So she decided to deal with this encounter herself, here.

"Do I get to know your name?"

"Victoria."

"Nice to meet you," he said, still pleasant. He stopped a few strides away from her, and though they could both see in the dark, Victoria suddenly felt as though the shadows around them were deeper and longer than before.

"You're not gonna find who you're looking for by gossiping with bartenders and sneaking around the city," he said, coming another step towards her. Victoria slowly unfolded her wings yet again. "Easy, there. I just wanna talk."

"I believe think I know what you're talking about," she said, raising her chin in a silent act of defiance. She had been beaten down enough by flightlings who liked to assert their aggressive sides. And no matter what this person said, he was acting as dominant as he possibly could. She'd do the same. Her wings stayed as tense as her jaw and she stood her ground.

"Don't waste my time. There're people being murdered and if you have anything to do with trying to stop the person doing it, you'd better do it right."

"What makes you think any of what you've just assumed about me?"

"A stranger coming in and asking about hunters and how to find out more about flightlings in the area? You're here to catch someone, whether it's us or them."

"Well I'm a flightling, so what would I have to do with hunting other flightlings?"

"You'd be surprised. There's some of us who're willing to turn on their own kind," he looked at her suspiciously, taking another step towards her. Victoria's wings raised up another couple inches defensively.

"Listen, if you have anything you want to tell me that is actually useful, then I'd like to hear it. Otherwise I'll be on my way," she said, her chilled demeanor cracking ever so slightly. She wished Tim were there with her. "How do you know there are flightlings being murdered?"

"Kid gets killed in the park? That's not going to stay a secret."

"Hey," another voice called. Both flightlings looked down to the end of the alley and saw the third floor bouncer there, looking suspicious at Cameron, especially given Victoria's defensive posture. "There a problem here?"

"No, just telling my friend goodbye," Cameron lied before turning back to Victoria. "It's not just Navy guys getting killed. Maybe ask your detective friends about that," he breathed, giving her a piercing look before turning and heading back towards the lounge.

Victoria stood stock still and watched him go, and despite the warm evening, her arms were covered in goosebumps. The pounding beat coming from the other side of the alley wall echoed her own rapidly pumping heart rate. Once she was alone, she folded her wings away and doubled over, putting her hands on her knees to keep them from shaking. She felt very claustrophobic. They alley was empty but it was as though she were surrounded, caged. The biggest issue was, Victoria couldn't decide if this reaction came from encountering an aggressive, dangerous flightling for the first time since Italy, or if it was the realization that maybe there were far more flightling victims than the NCIS team thought there were.

It was probably both.


End file.
